


Gewissensbisse

by Nymm_at_Night



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Awful metaphors, BAMF Jeremy, Brooke has so many friends, Buff Christine, F/M, Gossip Is Bad Kids, I die on the pike of Germany Heere, It's all very bisexual, Jer is so! in! love!, M/M, Multi, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Polyamory, Post-Squip, Pre Squip-Squad, Protectiveness, Rumors, and being bad at it, discussions of the above, forgive and forget? resent and remember, let michael and christine FUCK 2017, meremine - Freeform, michael is merely mostly gay, no illustrations, sorry!!!, this is a hot mess, three people falling in love, three player game, triagonal sexual tension, unresolved emotional problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 04:49:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12161868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymm_at_Night/pseuds/Nymm_at_Night
Summary: Ge·wịs·sens·bis·se; Conscience bites, pangs of remorseOld rumors get a new lease on life, high school is shit, and Jeremy, Christine and Michael learn to make it a three player game.





	Gewissensbisse

**Author's Note:**

> This is a hot mess I wrote completely by accident, so I'm sorry if I jonesed it up, I just want more meremine content. Hope you enjoy, either way.  
> Edit note: There were emojis in the first draft, and they were causing the story to cut off. I removed them, but please tell me if the problem persists!

Jeremy usually isn't crazy about Indian food, but for Christine, he can make an exception. The address she gave him, a short bus ride downtown from his house, is a little hole in the wall with pictures of curry and rice in the window, faded from the sun.

The SQUIP hisses in his ear to wait, let her think he's almost stood her up, then swoop in to comfort her with lies about the bus breaking down, and how glad he is he made it, but the very idea makes him grit his teeth. In an act of spite, he hitches a ride on the bus before the one he needs.

Clearly that was a mistake. There's only five minutes until they're due to meet, but Jeremy's stomach feels like it's started to digest itself, he's that hungry. The heavy spices in the food usually don't do anything for him, but now he can smell the saffron and cumin from the sidewalk outside, hear the sizzle of through the kitchen window. He leans against the lamppost, fidgeting with his sweater, an old red one from the back of Mom’s old wardrobe.

Thankfully, Christine is on the same wavelength as him, because she shows up two minutes before the allotted time. She looks incredible, even under the harsh glow of the street lights. Her hair's pulled back with a little pink clip, and under her denim jacket is a bright green skater dress. Jeremy flicks his eyes up from watching how the hem of the skirt skims across her thighs, because he's being disgusting, and Christine probably hates that he's ogling her, and he at least wants to get into the restaurant before she realizes he's gross and leaves.

“C-Christine, you—” Oh god, he's stuttering, kill him now— “You look amazing.”

She smiles, and reaches out a hand to pat his shoulder. “You look pretty rad yourself!”

Jeremy is positive that he's flushed from the tips of his ears all the way down to his shoulders, and maybe it's just the flicker of confidence from the compliment, but the words are out before he can even think about it. “I got you something!”

“Really? You didn't have to!”

Oh god. Should he have waited? Should he have not gotten them at all, gone for casual instead of this? Would flowers have been better?

He doesn't say that, of course. Instead he blurts, “I saw these, and I thought you might like them,” pushes the gift into her hands and hopes he doesn't sound more pathetic than usual.

Christine raises the set of enamel pins up, examining them in the light, and smiles. Carefully, she pulls off one before tucking the piece of plastic they're pinned to into her bag. A moment of fiddling later, and Christine's jacket is proudly sporting a glossy little cactus in a pot, complete with a tiny flower.

“Thank you,” She says, and the genuity in her voice nearly bowls Jeremy over. “This is really sweet— I mean, the flower’s pink! That’s so nifty!”

Jeremy can't find the words, so he just hides his dopy grin and ugly dimples in his hand, and offers his other arm to Christine. She takes it, and Jeremy follows her inside.

The restaurant is possibly the most cramped business he's ever been in. The booths are practically stacked on top of each other, and the counter awkwardly bulges into the eating space like the German front in World War Two. If the smell was strong outside, it's nothing to being in the restaurant.

Christine marches up to the counter, and Jeremy is content to follow, flicking his eyes down the list. There's a lot of options, and most of them he doesn't recognize, or even know how to pronounce.

Christine seems perfectly at home though, pointing off exactly what she wants off the menu. Jeremy wonders how often she's been here, and if she's ever taken anyone else out here. Maybe he's the first. The thought fills him with equal parts happiness and nerves.

Jeremy's eyes flick up to the board of choices that loom over him, and puts his faith in the decision making strategy that got him through the first two years of highschool and Mrs. Mell's cooking as the palest man on Earth.

Pick at random and hope you don't die.

“I'll have the...” Fuck, what does that say. He jabs a finger at something described as a rice bowl.

“Which sauce?”

_Shit._

He likes spicy food, more than most people probably expect, enough that Michael once fed him cayenne peppers as a joke when they were kids, and watched him eat them whole, horrified, but he doesn't want to push his luck. What if it turns out to be too hot for him, or worse, Christine think's he just trying to show off? “...The medium one?”

The man shrugs and moves over into the kitchen. Jeremy can see him filling up cardboard takeaway containers with rice, cabbage and a thick sauce that looks a little bit like curry.

Jeremy grabs both their meals and follows Christine to a little booth, the one that's pressed up against the window. She sits, smiles, and then stands. “One sec, I forgot something!”

She comes back a minute later with two orange smoothies, and slides one over to him, grinning. “Lassis. You'll like it.”

He does.

The curry tastes like he's eating lava, but in a good way. The burn of the peppers knocks the cold out of his bones, but the yogurt sauce helps dull the searing feeling of it. It reminds him a little bit of when his dad used to make Hackfleischsauce for Sunday dinner, but instead of beef, there's lamb, soft and tender.

“Jesus Christ, this is great.”

Christine shimmies a little in her seat, and sits up a little straighter. “Thanks. My dad plays chess with the owner, so we've been going here since I was in diapers. He gave me pudding sometimes— the owner I mean, not my dad.”

Jeremy sees the opening and takes it. “Your dad?”

Christine nods, smiling. “He's an agent for a lot of indie bands and stuff. Y'know, manages their merchandise, sets them up with live gigs at places like this, the works.”

He swallows another scoop of curry and avoids pointing out that the restaurant can barely fit them, let alone a band. “That's cool!”

“He's how I got into acting.” Christine takes a long drag from her lassi, and twirls her hair around her finger, which is just unfairly distracting. “What are your parents like?”

Jeremy shrugs and tries to find some configuration of words that's both honest and doesn't make his dad sound like a massive dick, because he knows he's been trying to pull himself together. “Dad's... got some issues?”

Christine frowns, and he can see the worry in how she's gnawing at her lip. So much for honest AND fair. “Not like Rich or Jake, just... he's not always able to be there emotionally. He’s getting better though.”

He sighs, desperate for another topic, because thinking about his dad moping makes him think about how he was moping, and why they even went to that stupid Payless. “He works for a divorce firm.”

“And your mom?”

“Ironically, she didn't even file for divorce.” Jeremy goes for light and joking, but he can still feel the bitterness creeping into his voice. “Sorry, that's probably a bit too heavy.”

“It's fine, really.”

“So...” It's suddenly a little hard to look at Christine's smile, soft and patient. “Are you going to try out for the spring musical?”

“Of course! I'm going to audition for Audrey.” She chirps, and rests her hand on his. “I think you'd make a great Seymour. Rich and Jake are baritones, but you're a pretty good tenor.”

Is this flirting? Is it flirting when you're already on a date with someone? It doesn't really matter, because Jeremy feels pretty great. “Yeah! I'm thinking of doing _Now_ for the audition. I wish there were more solo songs, but I guess I'll just have to use a recording for Orin's part.”

She nods. “I'm thinking _Someplace That's Green._ I don't know if I'll do the accent though, because I’m sort of worried I’ll strain my voice, but I don’t want to take away from the musical’s reflection on inner city life?”

“Huh. Maybe try practicing it a few times both ways? I'm sure you'd sound either way.” He smiles and takes a sip of the smoothie— mango and yogurt. That's pretty cool. “I've been trying to convince Michael to be Audrey's puppeteer.”

Christine snorts, but then pauses to think it over. “I thought he didn't like being on stage?”

Jeremy shrugs. “It's not that he minds being in front of a lot of people, he just thinks he's bad at acting, which is bull.”

“Feed me Jeremy, feed me!” Christine croons, as low as she can go. “Feed me all night long!”

Jeremy snorts. “You know the kind of red eyed sweets he craves: Slushies.”

“God, he's going to kill the Seven Eleven—” The clink of the bells attached to the front door cuts her off, and despite himself, Jeremy looks over to see who's shown up. It's dumb, because it's seven o'clock on a Friday night, of course there are other customers, but the SQUIP always insisted on knowing everything going on at a given moment, so reflex is pretty much burned into his brain.

It's a couple of girls from their school, as well as one out of place guy who's probably a boyfriend or a brother. They stand in the doorway for a moment, whispering, and Jeremy's heart flip flops as he recognizes the brunette as one of Chloe's posse. They don't go to the counter, and it takes a moment for Jeremy's anxiety and pitiful hope to duke it out before he realizes that yes, they saw him, and they are definitely walking over here, instead of the next booth over.

“Christine!” The head girl has eyeliner sharper than a razor blade, and hair like a sheet of black glass. It'd be attractive if Jeremy didn't feel like he was being dunked into ice water, hearing the cloying way her name rolls around her mouth. He knows that tone far too well— mockery just veiled enough to be deniable.

Christine doesn't seem to notice, just perks up and smiles sweetly at her. “Yes?”

“You're out on a date! Already!”

Jeremy can't help the flush on his cheeks as Christine nods and laces their fingers together. Her hands are soft and warm, and he never wants to let go. “This is Jeremy Heere. We're in theater together.”

“Yeah,” He croaks out.

“Congratulations!” Eyeliner's smile is all teeth. “I'm glad you're getting yourself out there so soon after... Jake.”

Christine's cheerful demeanor drops for the briefest moment. Jeremy squeezes her hand for a second, and after a pause, she returns the pressure. “We're just friends now. Really.”

“Well, I'm glad you're getting along. Really, I am, but it kind of makes you look like a...” Eyeliner pouts and glances back at her friend with the tight brown curls and then back to Christine. “Well, you're a smart girl. You know what I mean.”

“Don't talk to her like that.” Fuck, that sounded way too desperate and far too dumb, and Jeremy's never been good at confrontation, but like hell he's going to let her talk shit about Christine. “She c-can date whoever she wants.”

“Whether it's a good idea or not.” Eyeliner's eyes are on him like headlights, and Jeremy feels like the deer that's about to get run over. “What sort of idiot dates the guy who ditched Brooke of all people for her best friend?”

“What?” Christine's face falls and she looks between her and Jeremy, who wants to say something to make her stop, but his lungs are filling up with seawater.

Eyeliner's mouth quirks, and Jeremy can hear the rest of her group giggle behind her, like the bullies every shitty stereotypical teen movie. If this was a musical they'd be snapping, and that'd be better because at least it might make Christine laugh or smile or something other than that heartbroken frown. “At Dillinger's party, he ran off and fucked Chloe. Didn't you know?”

“No.” Jeremy never wants to hear her voice go that quiet ever again. “I didn't.”

“Yeah, he got her wasted and dragged her up to Jake's parent's room,” She intones, and leans in close enough that her hair brushes against him. “And this is after he brought Brooke as his date.”

Jeremy wants the ground to swallow him whole. He manages to croak out a fragile “Stop,” but the girls don't even hear him.

“God, I can't believe you'd take advantage of her like that. Disgusting.”

She's saying something else, but Jeremy feels like the world's slipped out of alignment, fuzzy and distant. It's too much, so he does what he's always done.

He runs.

The winter air is cold enough to sting, but the pain helps ground him. He rests his head against the cold wall of restaurant, praying that the other pedestrians ignore the loser crying outside of the world's tiniest restaurant, and the brick digs into his skin.

He hears her coming before she even says his name, flats slapping against the sidewalk. “Jer.”

She doesn't say anything, just waits until he pulls his head away from the cool peace of the wall. Her hair is ruffled like she's been twisting her fingers in it, and he wants brush away the tears on her lashes, but that's a terrible idea, because she's probably pissed as hell and he's not that suicidal.

“Did you,” She pauses, and Jeremy can practically feel how she's trying to keep her voice level. “Did you really cheat on Brooke?”

Jeremy wants to tell her no, wants to say it until his throat is sore and she believes him, but then he remembers Chloe over him, the SQUIP grinning over her shoulder, and the words catch in his throat.

He can't say anything without it feeling like a lie, so he just presses back against the wall and tries to keep his voice steady. “I don't know.”

“You don't know.” Somehow the incredulity in her voice makes it all worse. “You don't know if you cheated on a girl with her best friend?!”

Jeremy feels like collapsing in on himself. He's never heard Christine angry, not just over some Broadway show, or the school's pitiful theater budget, but really angry. The worst part is how cold she is. Christine's always been brash and bold, brighter than the sun and just as hard to ignore, but the icy, tired look in her eyes makes him feel like he's going to freeze to death.

“Do you have any idea how much that hurts, when someone you trust goes behind your back to fuck Chloe?!” She shouts, and then lets her voice drop to a hiss that makes his breath catch in his throat. “Jeremy, how could you do that?”

“Because it didn't let me _not_ do it!” Desperation streaks his voice, and he chokes back a sob.

Christine is silent for a rare moment. Shaking, Jeremy looks up at her. Her mascara's running a bit, and her face is red, but the anger is tamped down by worry. “Was it... the SQUIP?”

Jeremy nods.

“What happened?”

He hates talking about this, even with Michael or Rich, hates how flayed open and scared it makes him feel, how the memories come rushing back like a tidal wave and how it clogs his head and tears into him with a million what ifs, because what if he hadn't taken that stupid pill, hadn't upgraded, hadn't followed Chloe upstairs, fought harder.

He takes a deep breath. It isn't that hard to explain it, really. He spent hours in front of a mirror before he tried to tell Michael, going through the script he printed out, and now that he's talked to his dad about it as well, it should be easier.

Relax Heere. Say the lines.

Just like theater practice.

“I was at the party with Brooke. We got separated, and Chloe told me she was upstairs. She lead me to Jake's parent's room, a-and,” Jeremy's voice slips out of the flat, detached tone he was going for, and he winces as his voice stutters like a broken gramophone. She reaches for his hand, but he flinches away. The contact makes his skin crawl. “She pushed me onto the bed, and the SQUIP paralyzed me. She gave me some alcohol, and that deactivated it. I got up and left.”

It's a summary, boiling the worst night of his life, of Michael and Rich and Jake's lives, down to the basics. Simple words, no emotion, and no detail, but Christine's face still screws up. “Oh. I understand.”

Jeremy's grateful she doesn't say anything else. Anything more, even if it's comforting, hell, especially if it's comforting, is just going to crack what's left of his fragile composure, and he doesn't think he can take breaking down into a sobbing wreck or emptying his stomach in front of her.

She leans against the brick wall next to him, staring at the neon lights of the liquor shop across the street. It helps, not having her right in front of him. At least now he doesn't feel so cornered, and it's easier to shy away from her eyes. She speaks after a moment.

“Jeremy, do you want me to drive you home?” Her voice is so soft, it makes his breath hitch, but he's not going to cry. He's sick of crying in front of people, sick of making them dance on tiptoe trying not to upset him. There's no use pushing it— he's lucky enough Christine is still here.

He shakes his head, not trusting his voice, and Christine looks almost disappointed.

She walks with him to the car. She doesn't hold his hand, but she still kisses his cheek. For a moment before she pulls away, she looks like she wants to say something, but Jeremy's walking towards the bus stop before she can find the words.

The ride home is quiet and lonely.

His empty bedroom is worse.

* * *

Spencer's gifts is an absolute enigma. It's truly baffling how a store that only sells weed paraphernalia to tweens trying to be edgy manages to smell entirely of hemp, artificial flavorings and phthalates. Jeremy waits outside the door to the backroom in silence, glancing over at the bachelorette section, where various phalluses of varying size, decoration and functionality are boxed on the shelves. A few months ago, he'd be discretely checking the prices and debating whether or not Michael would notice an extra package in his bag, before wussing out and eventually settling on buying another bottle of lube.

But now, the whole thing feels wrong. It feels gross even thinking about it, a cold and clammy feeling lacing up his spine, because it's disgusting, and he's pathetically horny and desperate for even thinking about it. He's... still probably dating Christine, and she would know if he did anything like that, and probably hate him for it.

He sweats, trying to ignore the dead eyes of the women and men on dildo packages.

Michael, with a click of the door and case of glass bottles, is there to save him from himself. Wordlessly, Jeremy takes the six pack of Surge from him and tucks it under his arm.

“So, how'd your date go? Did you eat them out of every pepper in the store, or were you content on eating like a normal person?”

Michael's all easy smiles, and it makes Jeremy drop his guard more than he'd care to admit. That's probably why he does it, the same way Jeremy always asks for him to hook up his MP3 player up to the car, no matter how weird today's fixation is.

He sighs. “Well, people have moved on from how Halloween ended to what actually happened during the party.”

Michael stiffens, and Jeremy is quick to reassure him. “Nothing about you, I swear!”

A moment of silence passes, like it usually does whenever the Bathroom Incident and the events preceding it are brought up. “I'm sorry.”

Michael sighs, running his hand through his soft, dark hair, equal parts fond and weary. “And I've forgiven you. We both had some pretty shit stuff happen that night.”

“Yeah, that's sort of what's been getting around the school.” Jeremy drops his voice to a whisper, eyes peeled for any of their classmates. The whole school probably has heard already, but if years of bullying have taught him anything, it's that feigned ignorance is bliss. “Someone's been talking about Chloe. And me.”

“Fucking hell.” Michael sounds like he's ready to shank someone with a soda cap. “What the fuck? Who the fuck gets off on talking about how you nearly got raped?”

Jeremy winces and almost drops the soda. It's not like the thought has never crossed his mind, what would have happened if Chloe hadn't poured the alcohol down his throat, because god knows his head is a master at what-ifs, but hearing it said out loud feels like reopening the wound all over again, and that word puts a face on him that doesn’t match his own.

His face must look pretty bad, because Michael leads him over to one of the benches in the mall, which Jeremy appreciates, because it means he doesn't have to work up the will to say he needs to sit down himself. Again, it's just another best friend thing.

“Miah,” Michael says, voice soft and comforting, a hand on his shoulder. “What happened?”

He does his best to relay last night, but he knows he's fallen into the dull monotone again. It helps, in a weird way, to tell it like it's some script for theater: Loser goes on date with girl of his dreams, popular girl shows up to bully those below her social standing, loser has breakdown and nearly loses girl of his dreams. Three act structure, auditions Friday, call backs on Monday, if Christine doesn't hate him.

Michael rubs a hand over his face, then loops his arm around Jeremy's shoulder. It's kind of pathetic how much he leans into the contact, but it just feels nice to be held by Michael, and not have to worry about any ulterior motives or the SQUIP forcing them apart. He can just sit, Surge a comforting weight on his lap, and listen to the tinny music over the loudspeakers and the SQUIP insulting everything terrible about him in a vain attempt to get him to push away.

“Jesus Christ.”

Michael claps his hand over his mouth and looks away before he even finishes saying the words, but Jeremy's already seen her.

It's weird, honestly. It feels like there should be more of reaction, like he should burst into hysterical sobbing or vomit at the sight of her, but after last night and today, maybe Jeremy's just exhausted his whole tiny emotional range, because the only thing that registers is a bad ache around his throat, like a bruise that just won't heal.

Michael's eyes are narrowed, like he can cut her to bits with his glare. “Fucking hell, Chloe. God, I'm going to—”

Jeremy pulls him back before he can even take a step. “Michael, don't. Please.”

Michael relents, and Chloe continues gossiping with Brooke and Jenna in front of the Pinkberry, oblivious. She flips her hair and laughs, and something in Jeremy _burns_ at the unfairness of it. He doesn't push it though. They might have escaped total social desolation, and yeah, Christine, Rich and Jake are their friends now, along with a few folks from Tech, but cussing out the hottest girl in school, with her best friend and top informant right next to her, is still social suicide.

They sit in silence for a moment, and watch as the trio drift into the American Apparel, giggling over something Jenna said.

“You should talk to her.”

Jeremy gives Michael a baffled, panicked look that sort of looks like one of those cats finding a cucumber. Michael puts up the one hand not slung around his shoulder. “I meant Christine, but you should tell Chloe too. It would be cathartic, trust me.”

Bitterness knots in his stomach, but Jeremy nods anyways. “I'm going to, if Christine still wants to be around me. We're heading out for snacks after school on Friday.”

“Jeremy, if she doesn't want to be around you for something you didn't do, something that _wasn’t your fault_ , then you have awful taste in women.” Michael's voice is soft, his smile sweet and a little sad, probably with pity, and it helps blur out the filthy feeling in Jeremy's chest. “Besides, she's totally into you.”

Jeremy groans. “Remind me why I'm getting girl advice from the one person I know who's been on less dates than I have.”

“Because you're dad's divorced, and Rich would tell you to start humping her leg,” Michael snorts. “Not that you don't want to.”

Jeremy hates Michael and himself, because he's right. “Whatever. You can start weighing in if I ever find a guy.”

Michael laughs. “Trust me, I will.”

“Ugh, how are you so calm about this?” Jeremy sighs, leaning his head back against Michael’s arm to look at the mall's skylight. The clouds are as overcast and gloomy as he feels.

“Because I know she's head over heels with you,” Michael sighs, winking obnoxiously at him, and Jeremy groans. “She's had the button you gave her— the one with Shakespeare's head on it— pinned to her jacket for weeks. That's pretty obvious.”

* * *

Christine isn't on the front steps at the end of the school. Jeremy waits for an extra five minutes after the bell, watching the other students filter out into the buses, because his house is close enough he can walk anyways, and what if Christine's just held up somewhere and he leaves before she shows up and then she thinks he stood her up?

After another ten minutes of sitting on the pavement steps, tying and untying his shoelaces, he gives in and admits defeat. He can practically feel the SQUIP's condescending smirk as he looks forlornly up at the red brick of Middleborough High School and sighs. If he's here, he's here, pun not intended. Might as well get some work done.

The halls are comfortingly empty as he makes his way towards the theater. It's in the basement, the dressing and storage rooms tucked safely away. They're in between productions right now, and auditions for Little Shop of Horrors are still a few weeks away, so it's pretty empty. Even Mr. Reyes, who tends to haunt around the halls like a hot pocket eating version of Jacob Marley, isn't there, but Jeremy half hopes that at least some of the Tech kids are around. He can work a needle and thread pretty well, and helping to patch up old costumes or fix up set pieces doesn't sound half bad right now. At least it'll take his mind off things.

It looks like there's someone in there, at least judging by the muffled conversation coming through the double doors. In spite of himself, Jeremy presses his ear to the wood, just to make sure nobody's commandeered the stage for a private rehearsal or something gross.

He really should really be less surprised it's Christine. The fact that she's screaming at the top of her lungs probably should be the most notable thing, but after dating her for three weeks, he's sort of accepted that there are no brakes and no volume controls on the Christine train.

It when he hears what she's shouting, that's when things start to go down hill.

“What the fuck Jenna! You can't just spread that shit around!”

Jeremy feels his heart leap into his throat, because the one thing worse than having the whole school hear he cheated with the hottest girl in school is having them hear the hottest girl in school pinned him to a bed and he couldn't do anything about it.

Someone, Jenna probably, says something, but it's too quiet to hear, and then Christine's yelling again. “I don't care! I'm sick of making fucking excuses about this! You did this with Rich and everybody else and I’m fucking done.”

There's a long, tense moment of silence, and then there’s Christine’s voice again, quieter and cold. “Just… just go.”

The noise of sneakers on tile gives him enough warning to pull away from the doors before they smack him in the face. Jenna pushes by, and then freezes half way down the hallway, turning to stare at him like he's grown a second head. She's white as a ghost, but he can't deal with the pity or guilt or whatever in her eyes, so he just averts his gaze and slips into the theater before the doors can clang shut.

Christine isn't looking at him when he comes in. She's sitting on the edge of the stage, legs dangling into the orchestra pit and hair falling down her face like a curtain. Jeremy waits by the door for a solid minute, but when she doesn't move, he quietly pads over and hops up onto the stage, settling in next to her.

“Hey Jer, I didn't hear you come in.” When she looks up, her eyes are red rimmed. The SQUIP tells him to kiss her, but the thought of doing that while she's so... upset feels wrong. He can’t even feel angry or dissappoint or whatever, he just pushes the thing twisting at his heart aside and wraps a twiggy arm around her shoulders, careful to keep everything chaste.

He knows he doesn't have the same comforting weight Michael does when he does this, but Christine still scoots in to lean her head against his ribs. If she can hear how his heart is racing, she doesn't say, just reaches a hand over to tangle their fingers together.

With his free hand, he digs into his pocket and pulls out his wallet and presses a five dollar bill and a few ones into her hand. “I'm sorry I didn't pay you back at the restaurant. I remembered when I got home, and I just figured I'd wait until today.”

“You didn't have to, but thanks,” She says and takes the bill, before slipping down to the floor. “Are we still on for Panera?”

Jeremy smiles in spite of himself, and follows, less gracefully. “Of course.”

Panera is a short walk away from school, in the same plaza as the Seven Eleven, and as much as he'd love to take her out for slushies, he's worried that that's a Michael thing, and that he'd be pissed if they went to Seven Eleven without him.

Speaking of Seven Eleven, it takes him far to long to recognize the figure sitting outside it as Michael, but to be fair, he's got a coat on over his hoodie, so it's a little bit hard to tell. Jeremy can't help the way it feels like the world has been lifted off his shoulders when he sees him, because Michael's always been great at distracting him from the shit things in life.

“Hi Mike!” Christine shouts, waving at him. Michael doesn't move, and she pouts.

“Headphones,” Jeremy smiles, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice. “There could be a robbery and he wouldn't notice.”

Christine grins and presses a finger to her lips, and gently pushes Jeremy behind one of the cafe's big signs. He watches her creep up behind Michael, tip toeing like a cartoon character. She glances at Jeremy for a moment, wiggling her fingers over Michael's oblivious head. He gives her a thumbs up and Christine swoops down like a falcon, pulling the headphones away and around her ears in one smooth motion.

Michael yelps, but he calms down when he sees it's just Christine, who settles in next to him on the curb.

“Yo Michael, what band is this?” Christine asks, shifting the headphones so that only one ear is covered. Jeremy pads out from behind the sign, and sits next to her. She offers the headphones, the coiled cord just short enough that Jeremy has to lean in against her. “It's good isn't it?”

Jeremy nods. The gentle thrum of the bass, tangled with the soft thrum of a ukulele and the warm tones of some sort of metal chime is relaxing. It's not really his thing, he's always preferred the slick sound of synthesizers and electronica, but he can still appreciate the music.

“It is. Where did you find it?” He asks, because if there's one thing Michael loves more than music, it's finding music .

Michael beams. “It's from this indie band from Missouri, they've got this kick ass hang bell set up, and they have some really great tracks with like, kalimba in it. I was at the record shop by the ramen place, and you won't believe who told me about them.”

Michael keeps going, rambling about how the guy who used to sell him pot was chilling behind the shop crying over a breakup, and how Michael accidently got him clean or something. Jeremy winces a little as keeps going— it's not Michael's fault, and he loves listening to him talk, enough that Michael gave him a fifteen minute long mp3 of him rambling about dolphins as a gag gift (He still listens to it when the nightmares get bad), but he _is_ technically on a date with Christine.

He looks at her, but she doesn't seem at all bothered by the sudden addition of Michael into their date. She's just nodding along, an easy smile on her face as Michael finishes up the story. “So, where were you two going?”

“Panera,” Jeremy says, and wonders if Michael gets the hint.

“Do you want to grab like, a panini with us? Or soup or a bagel? I don’t really know what they sell at Panera!” Christine chirps, and glances back at Jeremy, brow furrowed. He's pretty sure they're having some sort of weird, blinking based conversation, but Jeremy isn't fluent in Christine-blinks yet. His vocabulary is pretty much limited to “I can't speak blink” and “Where is the train station?”

Christine seems satisfied with whatever she got out of the exchange, and she stands, offering her hands to both of them. “So, how bout it?”

Michael nods and grabs her outstretched palm. “Fuck yes. Someone needs to stop Jeremy from stealing all the honey packets.”

Jeremy groans and takes her hand, letting Christine pull him off the pavement like a bag of grapes, which is honestly way too attractive. “That was one time, and you were the one who mixed five packets into some rice and ate it.”

Michael snorts and shoves him. “It was delicious!”

“Yeah, like sin!”

“Uh, actually!” Christine says, voice a little unsure, “Honey rice is really tasty, I mean...”

Christine brightens when Michael nods sagely. “It's fucking excellent. That’s two to one, Jeremy, get wrecked.”

Jeremy just puts his face in his hand, rubbing the bridge of his nose as they walk over to the Panera. “It's too sweet, I'm sorry!”

Michael rolls his eyes and pushes open the door, and Jeremy sighs contentedly at the warm air and smell of fresh bread. Thankfully the line isn’t too long, and they get their food pretty quickly— some pretentious hipster panini for Michael, with basil or something, french onion in a bread bowl for Christine, and a cup of tomato soup for Jeremy.

Jeremy is sort of wondering how the seating arrangements are going to work, but Christine seems to have it all figured out because she makes a beeline towards one of the empty booths and sits. She just smiles at them both and inches over on the bench-thing until there's enough space for the three of them. Jeremy sits next to her, Michael shuffling in next to him.

The whole meal kind of reminds Jeremy of a video he saw in third grade science class where a bunch of cottonmouths were eating bird’s eggs, and they just sort of enveloped the food with their mouths and swallowed them whole.

Despite all of the snake metaphors, it's warm between her and Michael, and Jeremy can feel his face heat up as Christine loops her arm around his waist to play with the hem of his shirt. It feels intimate, sitting here, the two of them comforting weights at his side. Michael leans across the table to swipe a bite of Christine's bread bowl, and she just laughs, oblivious to the way Michael puts his hand on Jeremy's thigh to steady himself.

Jeremy's face is uncomfortably hot all of a sudden as his head goes somewhere it really shouldn't, but it's not half as uncomfortable as what's going on in the whole... southern region.

He politely excuses himself to the bathroom.

Jeremy practically dunks his head in the sink basin, thinking as hard as he can about his grandma's beanie baby collection, his dad's thermal underwear and Mr. Reyes eating hot pockets, and only shuts off the faucet when the situation in his pants has fallen from def-con awkward. When he lifts his face up from under the ice water, his reflection stares tiredly back at him from the mirror.

He's not doing this.

He's not being gross with Christine or Michael or anyone, and he's not going to let the fact that he can't control his fucking dick ruin everything.

It's not happening.

The Jeremy in the mirror looks suitably cowed, and he turns away from the glass as the SQUIP begins to chide him for missing his Appearance Checks. He shakes his head like that'll knock the circuitry loose. He doesn't need that pill to tell him how his nose is too long and pointed, the way his eyes are uneven in the sockets or how his skin gives him the appearance of cadaver with hives.

When he gets back, Michael and Christine are somber, discussing something in hushed voices, but when they spy him, Michael is suddenly telling Christine about the newest album from some band no one's ever heard of. She, for her credit, laughs and smiles along, taking his headphones to clamp them over her ears. It makes something warm bubble up in his chest as he walks over, like he's an overflowing cup of hot chocolate or something.

Michael scoots over when he spots him, and there go all plans of taking an outside seat and avoiding the whole awkward mess.

Christine pecks his cheek once as he settles back in, and Jeremy immediately feels all the cold water and scolding go to waste. He gives up, settling against Christine and just getting lost in the warm, safe feeling. With them here, Chloe and Jenna and the SQUIP all feel insignificant.

“So, do you guys want a ride home?” Michael asks, leaning back against the booth and placing his hands on his stomach contentedly.

Christine grins and nods, and Jeremy smiles too, because not having to walk home is an unexpected perk. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

They shove their trays of food into the trash, stacking the flatware as best they can, and leave. Jeremy shivers in spite of himself, but Christine just wraps her arms around his waist, like a tiny, warm koala.

A ghost of a smile flits across Michael’s face, and in an instant flattens out into a thin line, but before Jeremy can ask what’s wrong, Michael’s already turning away to fumble with the door. Jeremy goes for the shotgun seat, but Michael gives him A Look and a quick head tilt at Christine, then mouths what’s either “Talk” or something kind of lewd, and Jeremy sighs in vague resignation, because Michael has never been one to let him dodge important things.

Jeremy gets in, Christine behind the driver’s seat across from him, and swallows down his nerves as Michael plugs in the aux and cranks the music up to something loud enough that Jeremy can imagine he’s deaf to them if they’re quiet.

He glances over at Christine as Michael pulls out of the parking lot, fiddling with a loose thread on the backseat. She meets his eyes and doesn’t look away. Her throat bobs as she swallows nervously.

“So,” Christine starts, catching his hand on the battered leather of the backseat. “Uh, how are you doing? I mean, with… stuff.”

The question is vague enough to be innocuous, but they both know what they’re talking about.

“I’m… good. No one’s really talked to me about it since uh, Friday, so that’s good? Or maybe it just hasn’t spread that fast?” Jeremy shrugs and looks at her, because he has no idea if that’s paranoia or just savvy.

A bitter smile traces Christine’s lips, and she squeezes his hand. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about Jenna spreading it any further.”

“Yeah, about that,” Jeremy says, and bites his lip. He tries to think of Michael’s comforting presence in the front seat, soft brown eyes stealing glances at them at stop lights, and reminds himself that he’s at least got him in his corner, no matter how bad he fucks this up. “I really didn’t want the school uh, knowing that I got… uh, pinned by Chloe.”

He winces first at the shitty euphemism, and then at the way Christine freezes. Any resentment or anger at her just sort of drains out of him as her eyes go wet and her mouth sort of falls open, because he is absolutely terrible at keeping anything close to a grudge. “Oh god Jer, I didn’t even think, I just saw her and I was so angry, and I just… God, I’m so sorry.”

‘It’s okay’ falls apart on his lips, and he swallows the broken words. “I know you are.”

Christine stares at their hands for a long, long moment, and Jeremy distantly notes that Michael’s taking the scenic route around the duck pond.

“I know this doesn’t mean much, but Jenna’s not a bad person,” Christine says, rubbing little circles into his palm with her thumb. “I’ve known her since eighth grade, and she wouldn’t… I mean, I hoped she wouldn’t but...”

Christine sighs. “I’m not going to let her think that’s alright. Not anymore.”

“Thank you,” Jeremy says for lack of anything better, and squeezes her hand tight.

The car stops with a little creak, and Michael turns down the music to a quiet thrum. “Hey Jeremy, your stop.”

“Thanks Michael,” he says, pulling his backpack over his shoulders as he gets out of the car. Michael gives him a little smile from the front seat, the one that’s always meant “Are you okay?” and Jeremy nods and returns it.

Christine walks him up the steps to the front door, kitten heels clacking softly against the flagstones. She touches his cheek gentle, waits for a moment, eyes soft, and draws him in for a slow, tender kiss.

“Hey,” Christine says as she pulls away. “I’m here for you, no matter what.”

Jeremy smiles at her as he goes inside, holding the words close, like a shield.

* * *

It’s a lazy, tired Thursday, and Jeremy’s practically counting the seconds until seventh period as he goes through the motions of his Chemwork. Nuclear chemistry is definitely his favourite part of the curriculum, but his AP Chem class means that he’s not going to get to learn much more about atomic structure until next year’s physics class, which sucks.

The familiar hum of his phone buzzes against his side, and he glances up at his teacher. She’s not looking at the class, staring intently at her laptop while she grades papers, so Jeremy figures the coast is clear, and shimmies his phone out of his pocket.

**From JakeyD**

_yo homeslice, wanna go out for a ride with me and r-dog_

**To JakeyD**

_As in right now?_

**From JakeyD**

_:DDDDD_

He glances at Jake, who’s drumming his fingers on the desk, work already done, and frowns. Jeremy hasn't been skipping school since the SQUIP. He used to do it occasionally with Michael, slipping out with a 'headache' and going down to Seven Eleven, but now the appeal's sort of lost. Maybe it's the fact that his dad would actually chew him out now (very exciting!), or maybe it just that school's a lot less hellish, but he'd rather just wait the hour. Somehow it’s easier to care about the risk of angry teachers and everything else skipping would bring on than it used to be.

He smiles at Jake from across the classroom, and shakes his head. Jake looks a little disappointed, but he nods all the same.

**To JakeyD**

_ Is after school okay? _

Jake still has a million extra curriculars, but the braces on his legs and the combined might of Rich and his physical therapist has kept him out of sports. He doesn’t seem to broken up about it though, and he’s all smiles when he nods to Jeremy.

Jeremy is halfway through typing out an eloquent response of five emojis and an “Awesome sauce”, but then the teacher is suddenly standing over him and tutting as she nabs his phone.

He sighs, suitably shamed and de-phoned, and gets back to work.

Class releases in the usual flurry of excitement, with Jeremy at the front of the pack. He was never this much of an early bird before the SQUIP, but now there's almost a pressure to be a good guest, to make sure he doesn’t make people wait on him. He tries not to think about how the SQUIP’s so deep in his head it’s messing with his schedule— there isn’t much he can do about that, and mulling it over just makes his chest ache and his skin crawl with the knowledge that he’s cursed himself to deal with that ghost for the rest of his life, and worse, that he deserves that.

Someone in the crowd shoves against him particularly hard, and Jeremy feels pain shoot up his arm as he hits the hard metal of a locker. He can hear laughter as flexes his fingers gingerly, but it’s probably not for him, he needs to quit being so sensitive, christ.

There's a harsh nip in the air outside, and he pulls his scarf up to cover his face as he runs to Rich’s parking spot on the other side of the lot. Rich and Jake are already waiting in the car, and Jake gives a lazy salute from the shotgun seat as Jeremy throws himself into the backseat.

He winces as he clicks up his seatbelt, because the cold New-Jersey-winter air makes the scars on his back tender. He says as much to Rich’s questioning look, and he nods solemnly.

“Try a hot pack, or some of that aloe shit. Fresh is better,” He says casually, pulling out onto the street. “And stay warm.”

Jeremy ignores the voice in his head cursing him out for daring to complain about scars in front of  _ Rich _ , of all people. “Thanks. Uh, my dad’s got one of those weird bean bags for back pain that usually works. If you ever want to borrow it, I mean.”

“Wait, what scars?” Jake blurts, craning his neck to look back at Jeremy like if he squints hard enough he’ll be able to see them through his sweater. 

“Just some uh, SQUIP stuff.” 

Jake nods. He’s one of the few people in the know about the fact that no, Jeremy didn’t roofie the play with ecstasy, he  _ just _ roofied it with an evil sentient AI bent on world domination, but Jeremy’s glad he does. Jeremy’s got, miraculously, Michael, and Rich needs someone in his corner too, even if that someone can be painfully tactless.

“But you weren’t in the fire...” Jakes trails off, confusion written into the furrow of his brow. “I mean, how could that thing given you scars?”

Jeremy bites his lip, because he’s not really sure he’s ready to explain the terrifying x-ray they took or the little diode the nurse pointed out to him on the computer screen, bright white against the grey of his lumbar, or the way it always felt like somebody had kicked him with a steel boot. Michael’s been his confidant for more than a decade, Rich has been there in every sense of the word, and Christine could make him tell her anything if she tried hard enough, but Jake’s always been this pillar of easy perfection, and until recently, casual disdain. The scared, vindictive part of him still can’t let go of that.

Rich saves him, shooting Jake a meaningful look, and Jake’s mouth goes open in a little “O” of understanding. Absently, Jeremy wonders if this is what Michael and him look like when they have their little nonverbal conversations, talking in gestures and injokes and a million other little things that only make sense after twelve years of learning everything about each other.

“So, did you hear about the new pool opening downtown?” Rich asks, breaking the silence. “Looking forward to seeing all of you in speedos.”

Jeremy flushes, but Jake just laughs and says something about string bikinis, and any awkwardness is washed away as Rich threatens to drown Jake.

“You won’t even be able to fight back, Dillinger!” Rich shouts, pulling off the highway in a way that manages to  _ feel _ angry. “You’re going to drown in the kiddie end!”

It’s a little weird how often he goes to the malls these days, either to pick up Michael’s soda, look at earrings with Christine as she pushes jackets that neither of them can afford into his arms to try on, or as the case is today, go to Jake’s favourite place in the universe.

Jeremy’s not even sure if Sbarro exists in the wild, outside of malls, or if it’s just a creature that only lives in the domestic safety of fluorescent lit food courts, but he figures Jake doesn’t care. He sure doesn’t look worried about the domestication of mediocre pizza when Rich drops them off at the entrance, driving the car back into the lot for one of the few parking spots that aren’t filled with SUVs. A few minutes later, he’s back, panting as he half runs, half heelys over.

“You know those wiener dogs with the little legs?” Jake stage whispers to Jeremy. “It’s kind of like watching one of those play fetch.”

Rich shoves Jake's face, and Jake jabs him in the leg with the point of his crutch, but they’re both smiling as they walk into the mall.

“Uh, have either of you gotten the math quiz from Peligimo?” Jeremy asks, partly to fill the silence, partly because his skin is crawling at the thought of trying to remember all of the proofs.

“Sorry, I’m taking Calc,” Jake laughs, all straight white teeth and crinkled eyes. “Rich has her though.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. You and your fucked up word math,” Rich grumbles. “The only thing you should be able to spell while solving a math problem is boobs on a calculator.”

“Excuse me,  _ variables  _ are dope!” Jake half shouts at Rich, and from there the conversation dissolves into an easy banter between them. It’s a little bit like a verbal tennis match. Jeremy just nods along, sometimes throwing in a snarky quip and on one occasion popping into a store when he sees a patch that would fit perfectly on the chest of Michael’s hoodie. There's a comfort to the rhythm of it, and if the clack of Jake’s crutches and the sound of his voice gets a little louder when Rich and Jeremy’s eyes drift towards the dingy orange sign of the Payless in the corner, no one mentions it.

They take their place in the nonexistent Sbarro line, Rich still trying to explain the lack of real world applications for their math class to Jake in simple words, like a cursing speak and spell. There’s a few kids from school on the opposite side of the food court, and he swears some of them are staring at them, but no one comes over as they sit around a table that could generously be called cleanish. Must be safety in numbers, or at least the talisman of having High School Awesomeness Personified sitting at your table, chewing his way through veggie pizza.

“So, I heard Christine and Jenna are fighting,” Rich says, taking a bite from his pizza and staring out at the little group of baby-goths hanging out by the suspicious sushi place, trying to be mysterious. The wording is so faux-casual, even Jeremy's oblivious ass knows it's not a statement but a question.

“Yeah, Madeline said she saw them arguing the other day. What's up with that?” Jake pipes up, blowing what's left of Rich's subtly to bits.

Jeremy sighs, because goddammit, this stupid rumor is just following him everywhere. Then again, this is Rich and Jake, who for all their lack of their subtlety and tact, are pretty responsible. They don't prod and pry like Michael does, which usually just gets him frustrated when he's upset, because the only thing worse than having a problem is having to drop it out of the blue, but it is probably going to make this easier. “Jenna spread a rumor and Christine got upset.”

Rich frowns, tracing the edge of his skin grafts like he always does when he's nervous. “You okay, man?”

Jeremy winces, because shit, he was slipping into the “rehearsal” voice again. He's really got to break that habit. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Jake takes another bite and frowns, but doesn't press. “That's weird. She never got that grouchy about Jenna when we were dating.”

“Yeah, well maybe things changed,” Jeremy bites, his voice too sharp. He can't help but remember Christine's voice, jagged and heartbroken in front of the restaurant.

“Jesus dude,” Jake puts up his hands placatingly. “What's with you today?”

Jeremy sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “Just stressed. I'm sorry.”

Jake frowns, and for a heartbeat, all Jeremy can see is him putting his fist through the wall and chasing him down the hall. He shakes his head and stands. “I need to go to bathroom.”

The cold water in his face chases away the nerves and dulls the hiss of the SQUIP in his ear as it whispers that he’s a coward. It’s just Jake and Rich, his honest to god  _ friends  _ and things are different now, no matter what that pill says.

Jake and Rich are having some kind of idle conversation when he comes back from his perpetual refuge, one that involves a lot of hand gestures and Jake giving Rich weird looks when he doesn’t think he can see it.

“You ready to go?” Jake asks, checking the straps of his braces one last time.

Jeremy nods, offering his arm, and Jake takes it, hoisting himself up and leaning on it as he shuffles his crutches around. 

The conversation on the walk back is quieter, and Jeremy does his best to keep from just staring out the window the whole drive home.

Rich parks the car in the driveway, taking the key out and stuffing it in his pocket as he gets out of the car. “C’mon, I’ll walk you in.”

Jeremy shrugs and nods, waving a goodbye to Jake. Rich trails behind him up the little cobblestone walkway to the door, hand stuffed in his pockets. Jeremy’s halfway through unlocking the door when he clears his throat. 

“Hey Tallass,” He says softly, walking up the steps so that they’re eye to eye for once. It still strikes Jeremy how short Rich is. For such a long time he had seemed like such a huge presence, but now without that anger and harshness, that intimidation is gone. It’s good though, the real Richard Goranski.

“Look, back when I had the SQUIP, it made me do a lot of things I didn’t want to,” Rich sighs, running a scarred hand through his shock of red hair. “Eventually I just gave in, but before then? It didn’t give me much choice anyways.”

Jeremy nods for lack of words.

“Look, just…” Rich takes a deep breath and lets it go, fog coming out of his mouth like a very small, very bisexual dragon. “I know you don’t want to talk to Jake about this, which like, I get, cuz like, I wouldn’t drop this shit on Headphones or anything, but uh… if you ever need to talk about this, I’m here, okay? I know what it’s like to have people hear about what you did second hand. It helps, being able to explain it to someone.”

Jeremy swallows the lump in his throat and nods. “I know you do. Thanks Rich.”

For a second, Rich gives him a soft little smile, and then he’s grinning and slapping Jeremy’s back hard enough to make him double over. By the time Jeremy looks up again, Rich is already heelie-ing down the sidewalk.

“Later dipshit!” He shouts, immediately before failing to round onto the corner and just sort of face planting in the snow. 

Jeremy sighs fondly and goes inside.

* * *

Chloe Valentine is pissed.

Jeremy knows that before he even steps through the door, thanks to a text from Jake bemoaning teenaged mood swings and high school, but even without their weird, friend of a friend relay system, Jeremy would have found out soon enough, because when the Hottest Girl In School is pissed, she wants everyone to know.

She struts down the hallways like every sharp click of her heels cracks open somebody's skull, manicured hands balled into fists. Brook drifts behind her on the right, face a strange mixture of cool aloofness and concern. The space on her left is conspicuously empty— no more Jenna trailing her, phone in hand, the queen’s spymaster.

Jeremy shrinks against the lockers as she passes by, dread pooling cold and sluggish in his gut. The door of his locker shields him from her glare as her eyes flick over the peasantry. Jeremy has a creeping feeling in his gut that he knows who she's looking for.

He manages to stay out of her way for the first half of the day, slipping into the bathroom or hiding behind Michael or Jake whenever she storms by. It's pitiful, running from her, but despite his best efforts, he still can't flee forever.

Most students didn't take the route along the east side of the building. It was slower, and in the summer it was broiling, while in the winter the tall windows lining the hall let in all the cold. Jeremy still took it sometimes, especially when he didn't want to be around other people. Besides, it was nice looking out at the frost glittering on the tree branches, left from last night's chill.

Unfortunately, Chloe Valentine is not most students. He winces as he hears the clack of her pumps, mixed in with another, softer set of footsteps. Jeremy curses at himself for not choosing a more populated hallway, where at least there'd be teachers to keep him safe. Not having to escape Rich for a whole two months had apparently sucked out all of his instincts.

“Jerry.”

Christ, he hates the way her voice makes his skin crawl and come alive with goosebumps. Trying to keep his breath steady, he picks up the pace, stepping into double time.

He doesn't get very far before her hand closed around his wrist, nails digging into his skin. Panic boils over like a pot left on stove, and he yelps, flailing away and nearly falling on his ass.

Pathetic.

He scrambles up from the floor, wincing, and turns to face them, because the one thing almost as bad as being on the ground is turning his back on a predator.

He's sort of reminded of the lions on Michael's documentaries. The soothing voice of some British guy had described how lionesses were the hunters of the pride, and Jeremy isn't sure if they’re pack hunters or not, but he still feels like a cornered gazelle or something. Maybe a really stupid zebra.

Chloe's glaring daggers at him, and Brooke frowns at him from behind her, stirring her smoothie with a straw with something close to indifference. Their eyes meet for the briefest moment, and Jeremy just  _ wilts _ under her cold look.

Brooke's a nice girl, nice enough to take pity on some loser who had said he’d gotten cheated on by Madeline, and he had betrayed that trust, or the SQUIP had, or  _ someone  _ had, and honestly, what was the difference? No apology was ever going to be enough for that, or anything else he had done. The one he'd given her as soon as he'd been released from the ICU had felt weak, but it wasn't like he'd been able to give the whole truth, not without dragging Jenna and Rich and everyone else down with him.

“It's fine. I'm used to shitty apologies,” She had sighed when he'd apologized for the lackluster apology, tripping over his own words. Somehow the sadness in her eyes had been worse than anger.

Jeremy flinches back as Chloe snaps her fingers under his nose, and he steps back, weighing his options. If he runs, then he'd be done for. Chloe, perennial cheerleader and Brooke, colorguard queen would be on him and ripping out his neck in a second. He shivers, because he never wants Chloe near his neck again.

“Hey dipshit, listen to me,” She growls, voice dripping acid.

He nods dumbly, because flight and fight have both knocked each other out in a mad panic, and now he's alone and frozen like a fainting goat in a slaughterhouse. Brooke's just about his only insurance here, and he tries to catch her eyes again, pleading, but she just stares intently at her drink.

“Now, you're going to fucking tell me what the hell your girlfriend said to Jenna,” Chloe hisses, teeth glinting like the fangs of a cobra. 

Jeremy winces at the sharpness in her voice, and even though he's half a head taller than her, he still feels like he's cowering beneath her. “I, uh. What?”

“Christine met with her the other week,” Brooke sighs up from over her shoulder, tossing her hair with a flick of her wrist. It sort of reminds Jeremy of a cat raising its hackles. He sure as hell feels threatened. “And she hasn't hung out with Chloe since.”

“Oh,” Jeremy says, and Chloe rolls her eyes and grimaces, baring her teeth. She looks like she's about to rip out his jugular. “I don't know anything. About that, I mean.”

“Right, her  _ boyfriend _ doesn’t know what’s going on,” She sneers, sarcasm cutting deep. “The boyfriend who follows her around like a cocker spaniel. God, you’re lucky she doesn’t have a restraining order— you probably like, sniff her gym clothes.”

Jeremy feels his face heat up in mortification and disgust. “I-I do not!”

“Mmhmm,” She says, disgust clear on her face. “Well listen, space case, because you better not fucking zone out on me now.”

Jeremy winces, because he thought he was being subtle about that. He can hear the SQUIP laugh along with every jabbing remark, voice tinny and distorted. 

“If you don’t tell me what the  _ fuck _ she said,” Chloe shouts, banging her fist against the lockers, the thunder to the lightning racing down Jeremy’s spine. “You two and your fuck-buddy are gonna fucking regret this!”

Jeremy scrambles back, tripping over his own feet and hitting the floor, heart pounding in his throat, raising his fists because any second she’s going to come at him and throw him against the wall, push him against the wall, and he doesn’t care about that, because she isn’t going anywhere near either of them. “L-leave them alone!”

Chloe isn’t even looking at him though. Her wide eyes are trained over his shoulder. “Jenna.”

Jenna looks tired, her hair unstyled and hanging limp around her face, but there's a hardness in her eyes that Jeremy doesn’t remember as she stares Chloe down. She reaches out a hand to him, and the pity in her face hurts. He still takes her hand though, because the other option is the withering glare of Chloe and the twisting, betrayed look on Brooke’s face. “Chloe. I’m done.”

“Jenna,” Chloe says again, but she trails off, voice stuffy. After a moment, she swallows, like she’s going to say something, but Jenna already is pulling him down the hall. After a few turns through the labyrinthine corridors of Middleborough High, Jenna pulls him close to the wall and lets go to shimmy at the handle of some door that Jeremy swears wasn’t there before. He wipes his hand on his pants, and hopes Jenna won’t tell everyone how sweaty he is.

If she noticed that, then she doesn’t say it, just gives the old door a sharp kick, right above where someone has scrawled “Kropp was here” in silver sharpie. It swings open, and Jenna flicks on a light switch, illuminating cramped shelves of cleaning fluids and brushes pressed up against dingy cinderblock walls.

She walks in and looks expectantly at him, and Jeremy follows, because maybe when Chloe breaks out of whatever shellshocked trance that she was in, she won’t find him and tear out his throat.

Jenna shuts the door with a little click, and then it’s just her, him and the single dusty light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He leans against the door, heart pounding like a drum in his ears.

“I owe you an apology,” She starts, and Jeremy has nothing to say to that, so he just nods. He wishes all the apologies he’s made to everyone since the SQUIP would made him better at getting them, but words still fail.

“Look, I know that I’m kind of a shitty person, and that people only keep me around to spread or get rumors, but like, it’s hard stopping that. I mean, who am I if I’m not the girl who gossips?” She says, staring at the floor. “I wanted to at least do something with that, let everyone know what you did to Brooke.”

Jeremy winces, nails digging into his palm, and she backpedals. “Or well, didn’t do. She told me, and then I asked Chloe, and she said she was drunk, and then Peggy wanted to know why you and Brooke broke up and I thought…”

She sighs tucking her bangs out of her face. “I thought that I could pull some vigilante shit, and then Brooke  would thank me, and then everyone else would like me for exposing the truth and just… I had this whole grandiose vision in my head and that’s a shit excuse, but…”

“It’s okay. I understand,” Jeremy says, because he does, he understands so much the parallels hurt, and what she did still stings, but if Michael and Christine could put aside all he’s done, then this is nothing. “I forgive you.”

Jenna blinks up at him like she did monthages ago, but now there’s no box of women’s running shoes between them. “Just like that?”

“Yeah. I mean, you did a shit thing so you wouldn’t feel left out or lonely, but I’d be a hypocrite if I held that against you,” Jeremy says, running his fingers through his hair.

She still looks unsure. “No strings attached?”

“No stri—” Jeremy stops, halfway through passing the buck of amnesty. “Actually, wait, there is one thing. Go apologize to Rich.”

“Rich?” Jenna’s face screws up all weird. “Didn’t he  _ actually  _ commit arson?”

“I mean, yeah, but like,” Jeremy shrugs and bites his lip. “There were uh… mitigating factors?”

“Mitigating factors?  _ He burnt down Jake’s house. _ ”

“Yeah, like…” Jeremy struggles for words that don’t involve “Abusive Keanu Reeves Drug Trip” or “Voring a TI-82”. “He uh…”

Jenna frowns and looks him in the eyes, raising a dark eyebrow. Her face is scarily intense, and Jeremy suddenly understands her almost preternatural ability to collect secrets. “That wasn’t ecstasy was it?’

“Uh…” Jeremy pulls at the hem of his sweater— it’s one of the nice baggy mom-hand-me downs, that ended up becoming mom mementos, or momentos as Michael calls them— and then realizes who he’s talking to. He levels a long look at her.

“I mean, you don't have to, but like, I won't spread it around. I think I'm done with being Chloe's snitch. Permanently,” She sighs. “Besides, I was the tripping on whatever that was.”

“Sorry!” Jeremy yelps on impulse, but Jenna just waves him off.

“I chose to take that pill, whatever it was. Speaking of which, are you going to tell me what was in it or not?”

Jeremy sighs and swallows the guilt crawling up his throat, because wow, he’s actually going to this. He’s actually going to tell someone, in a broom closet, and that someone is Jenna Rolan, and god, his life gets more surreal by the day. “We ate computers and they told us what to do. It sucked.”

“Jeremy,” Jenna says after a long, long moment. “What the fuck?”

“Uh…” Jeremy inches towards the door, his head chanting an endless litany of “What the fuck” to match Jenna’s. “The fuck… is the truth?”

Jenna gives him a long look. “Start talking.”

* * *

“Holy shit,” Michael says, setting down the slushie next to him on the bridge in stunned silence. From his other side, Christine nods, looping her arm around his and tangling their fingers together.

This has been happening more often, Michael hanging out with the two of them. Jeremy would have felt bad about messing up the sacredness of bro-time, or ruining dates with Christine, but neither of them really seemed to mind, thank god. Michael wasn’t a third wheel: It was more like he was a unicycle. It was nice hanging out with both of them, laughing as Michael pushed Christine through the supermarket parking lot in shopping carts and splitting the pizza three ways— they could all at least agree that pineapple pizza was kickass, and if that wasn't a good omen, Jeremy didn't know what was.

“Jeremy, I'm so sorry that happened,” She soothes, rubbing the back of his hand softly.

The contact is enough to make him relax, and when he finally speaks, he can feel his dull, rehearsed voice slough off like a snake skin. “Thanks. I just, uh freaked out and, yeah.”

“Well, that explains the notes in my locker,” Michael says lightly, but it's sort of strained. 

Jeremy feels guilt pool in his stomach. “What?”

Michael laughs a little, and pulls out a few pieces of torn paper from his hoodie, brandishing them like a lawyer. “You’re a loser, very original, Fudgepacker, but they spelt it Fugpacker, I should get a patch of that, and ooh, cuckold! That’s new, but if anything, that’s you Christine!”

Michael snorts, flicking the lighter from his pocket and setting fire to the papers. Jeremy watches the burning sticky notes and ink drift down into the sea, the ashes floating away so easily. Envy pools in his stomach, because god, he’s never understood how Michael just ignores these things and just lets them roll off him like water off a duck’s back.

Christine doesn’t either, judging by the way her fingers are knotted in her hair. “Michael, that’s horrible!”

Michael shrugs, kicking his legs over the stream, and Jeremy matches his gaze at the water, because Christine’s nice, and way too good for him, but she doesn’t really  _ understand _ . The last few months have been a pleasant reprieve, and the rest of school will be too, so long as Jake and Rich stick around, but once a loser, always a loser. There’s no reason to get riled up over the little stuff, since that’s just what bored jackasses want.

She frowns at them, eyebrows screwed up, her hand tight on his. “Jeremy, you’re not going to just let them say those things, right? You’ve got to go tell a teacher or something!”

Jeremy swallows, trying to work the lump out of his throat, because he can’t meet her eyes. Michael, like always, saves him.

“Christine, it’s okay. I can take care of myself,” he says gently, voice soft around the edge like it always is when it’s late and Jeremy’s stressed over something, and Michael is there to talk him through it, calm and comforting. “It’ll go away in a day or two. I don’t mind, really.”

“Okay… But Michael, I swear, if you need anything, I'm right here!” Christine reaches and takes his hand with the one not holding Jeremy’s and gives it a squeeze. “Just tell me who to punch!”

“You’d beat someone up for me?” Michael says, a touch incredulous.

“I  _ could _ ,” She proclaims, standing. “Jer, get up.”

Jeremy shrugs and complies, untangling himself from the comfortable spot between them. Christine only comes up to his chest, the top of her head bobbing at clavicle-height, but Jeremy’s pretty sure that she could kick anyone’s ass based on passion alone.

She crouches for a moment, and Jeremy just sort of looks confused for a second and then he looks like a startled cat as the world tilts, because suddenly Christine is hoisting him up in an honest to god bridal carry.

Jeremy feels his face flush as she shifts her arms so his gangly legs are bent, supported at the knee, and the traitorous, gross part of his brain immediately starts thinking about Christine manhandling him and Jesus Christ, he needs to stop thinking about her throwing him onto a bed before he explodes.

Michael’s stunned voice breaks him out of his perverted, lust addled thoughts. “Holy shit, you’re like two ounces of whoop ass.”

“He’s really light,” Christine chirps. “See?”

She bounces him in her arms and he yelps, grabbing her neck for support, and oh god, his brain is slowly sliding into panic and the gutter. “Gah— Schatz!”

“Huh?” Christine tilts her head at him, gently setting him on the ground. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing, it means—”

“Sweetheart,” Michael, the traitorous minx, supplies, voice a little bit wistful and a lot bit smug. Jeremy picks himself up off the ground, heart still hammering in his chest from surprise and vague arousal, and shoots a thinly veiled glare at Michael, who puts up his hands with a shit eating grin. “Hey, I only know about five words in German, but that’s one of them.”

“Technically, it means treasure,” Jeremy grumbles, scrubbing at his face like it’ll rub the blush away. He chances a look at Christine, who’s looking at him open mouthed. “Uh, is that okay? I mean, I’m sorry, I should have asked if you liked pet names first…”

“No! It’s really really sweet!” She says, sitting back down with a little space for him in between them. Jeremy takes it and she brushes the hair out of his eyes, and he feels his breath hitch.

Christine shivers against his side, and he pulls her closer, arms folded around her. She sighs contentedly into his chest, nuzzling his collarbone, but he focuses on Michael in his periphery to keep things from… escalating, which given how the sunset-red light plays across his jaw, is a bad, bad idea. 

Michael fumbles with his hoodie for a moment, pulling it off to show the nerdy, ugly Christmas jumper that’s now a month and a half out of date, like some sort of winter-wear matryoshka. He pushes his hoodie into Jeremy and Christine's collective lap, and she pulls away for a moment to shrug it on, and holy shit, it must be illegal to be this cute, sleeves bunched up around her wrists and the hem almost falling to her knees. 

She rests her head against his chest, and Jeremy leans against Michael so she can use him as a pillow better. The jacket still smells a little like weed, even months after Michael quit, but the smell is comforting in its familiarity. He wraps her arms around her, looping them in the safe zone of her waist, and lets his head loll back lazily against Michael’s shoulder, and for just a second he tenses under him, but then the hesitance is gone. Michael makes an amused noise and pats Christine's head, and then Jeremy’s. For a moment, nothing hurts.

* * *

On Wednesday, the end of unit history test pushes their lunch break to the end of the period. Jeremy and Michael walk into the cafeteria, brain fried from analyzing the effects of Federalism and the Unitary system and Jeremy’s heart falls as he scans the crowd. Right, Jake, Rich and Christine all have second lunch today. The two of them are alone in the sea of students in a way they haven’t been since the start of the year.

Jeremy takes a deep breath and lets it go, and shares a look with Michael, offering his arm. He nods and takes it, and they walk in together.

It’s weirdly easy to go back to the way things were, Michael’s hand a vice grip on Jeremy’s forearm, each of them scanning half of the cafeteria. Jeremy grabs the headphones with his free hand, clamping them over Michael’s ears like a knight’s helmet, and Michael shoots him a quick smile. They just need to make it to their old table, the one in the back corner, with the curse words carved into the wood, where no one clique is dominant.

Jeremy’s luck, as usual, dooms them. They don’t even make it halfway to the table before disaster strikes.

“Hey Jerry!”

Jeremy’s head snaps to his left at the sudden noise, and there’s a guy taller than him and about twice as wide getting up from his table. His green eyes are narrowed under his long, shaggy black bangs. “So, you broke up with Brooke.”

“Y-yeah,” He nods, and struggles to place the guy’s face. “Uh, things didn’t work out.”

The guy nods, and fuck he should know that tan and flannel shirt. “She’s a nice girl. Deserves better than a cheater.”

Oh.

Oh fuck, he remembers him, remembers sitting under the tree outside during lunch with Brooke, her hair spilling across his shoulder as she leaned against his side, going through old pictures on her phone. Her frown as she pointed out his face and sighed.

God, he thought the league of Brooke’s evil exes was supposed to fight her suitors, not each other.

“Yeah. Sh-She did,” Jeremy gets out, aware of Michael’s concerned look. “I’m sorry.”

The admission just seems to make him angrier. “Not sorry enough to not cheat on her. So, why’d you do it?”

“I uh…” He can feel Michaels grip on his arm tighten, and he wriggles out of it to to grab his hand. The guitar callouses are comforting in their familiarity.

The guy sneers and grabs the front of Jeremy’s shirt. “You don’t even have a good reason? Jesus.”

It’s reflex at this point, pushing the guy away and running, Michael still holding his hand as they duck and weave through the crowd. He doesn’t turn his head to see if Brooke’s ex is following them or is just standing there, watching a panicked loser and Michael run, but he doesn’t have time to wander as they dart out the the door into the halls, feet slapping hard against the tile.

After rounding the corner, they finally stop, footsteps slowing and coming to a stop as Jeremy leans against the window of the courtyard, panting.

“Well,” Michael starts, sweeping his headphones off his head and around his neck in one fluid motion, “I am glad we’ll never have that lunch period ever again. Who the fuck even was that?”

“Brooke’s ex? Or her friend? Or both?” He sighs, clunking his head against the cold glass. Maybe Michael will make another joke— that always calms both of them down after a close call. “Christ, she has so many friends and all of them  _ hate  _ me.”

“Well, I guess it’s less competition for the spot of favorite person.” Michael cracks a grin before fluttering his eyes shut and swooning with an exaggerated sigh. “Of course, your favor lies with some other dame.”

Jeremy probably looks as guilty as he feels. “Uh… it’s a tie?”

Michael gives him a weird look, sad and a little worried, and puts a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, okay, not really his shoulder, that’s more neck territory. “Hey, don’t worry about the specifics— I don’t need to be the center of your life. Christine and I can share the title, if you want.”

Something about his words makes something in his stomach explode into butterflies. He wants to— well, he kind of wants to kiss Michael, or hug him, or any of the less best friend-ly/not quite platonic things he makes him feel and ignore on a regular basis because the idea of cheating makes him guilty and sick, but it’s not any of that. It’s something warm and ephemeral, that feeling he keeps encountering when the three of them are alone, but he’s too scared to chase it.

Jeremy doesn’t say what he wants, just baps Michael’s forehead and goes to the door.

The courtyard is thankfully empty, and Jeremy lets them in carefully, wary of drawing the ire of any hall monitors. The garden is still frozen over and dead, but there's a weird sort of beauty to the way what’s left of the snow clings to the branches of the leafless tulip tree. Michael walks over to the old stone bench in the corner and brushes off the snow.

Jeremy feels a little weird sitting on the name of the kid the bench is dedicated to— some gay pride icon from the eighties who had a suicide pact— but its not like he’s alive to be offended. Michael doesn’t seem to care, fishing out his peanut butter and fluff sandwich. Jeremy follows his lead, taking out the thermos of canned soup— definitely a step up from his dad’s old standby of three bucks for hot lunch. He doesn’t even bother with the spoon, just drinks it, which would probably be embarrassing in front of anyone but Michael.

He sighs, letting the warmth spread through his bones. It isn’t as cool as it’s been for the last few days, but the air is still sharp and cold. He’s wearing the thick sweater mom always saved for blizzards and a turtleneck, but Michael is still just wearing his hoodie. He sighs and wraps his arm around Michael’s shoulder, because he knows he likes the contact too.

Best friend things.

Michael sighs fondly offers the crust of his sandwich to Jeremy, who devours it. They lapse into easy silence, capping water bottles, trading tomatoes for radishes and occasionally checking the time. They haven’t had to sit out here in ages, but the quiet is nice, a pleasant reminder of all the good things about how life used to be until the—

“Jeremy, how did you know you were bi?”

Jeremy spit takes with all the grace of a choking elephant and stares at came-out-in-fifth-grade, wears-this-patch-because-he-is-gay, once-shouted-”Sup heteros”-to-the-entire-school-cafeteria, two-four-six-eight-how-do-people-think-he’s-straight Michael fucking Mell.

“Wha _ — _ buh _ — _ hwa?” Is all he manages, and Jeremy can feel years of speech therapy go out the goddamn window.

Michael just flushes and stares at his bag of chips. “I mean, I can ask Rich if you're not comfortable with it, but, uh. Yeah.”

“No, no, no, it's fine, I just—” Jeremy says lamely, because he knows an explanation from Rich would probably end in him recommending some weird ass bellybutton porn or something. He loves Rich, really, but the SQUIP, for all its many, many faults, was roughly 80% of his filter and about 100% of his self control. “Wow. Uh, why are you asking?”

It's a stupid question, because yeah, there are not a lot of reasons he could be asking, but still, the very concept of Michael entering the same  _ star system  _ as heterosexuality is so fucking baffling, it makes him feel like the world's been tilted on it's axis.

“I'm not bi,” Michael says a little suddenly, putting up the hand not currently shoveling chips into his mouth. “I'm still really, really, gay, I'm just... thinking over some stuff. Just, how'd you figure it out?”

Jeremy just short of shrugs, and tries to ignore the racket his brain is making over this, trying to think back to that very awkward freshman year, in that weird grace period between when their middle school bully got held back for another round of eighth grade, the poor bastard, and before Rich took the SQUIP and suddenly became a raging asshole.

“I just, saw this guy,” Jeremy starts, politely leaving out the fact that this guy was in fact Neo, from the Matrix, because the SQUIP’s ruined everything tangentially related to Keanu Reeves, “And thought like, if I wasn't straight, I'd. Y'know.”

“But then I thought, what if I wasn't straight? And then I cried myself to sleep for a week.” Jeremy says, because it's a well known fact that that's how he deals with most life changing issues. “And then I told you.”

Michael squints at him for a long second and then nods. “Okay. Yeah.”

“S-so, you think girls are hot?” Jeremy hazards, remembering the weird Freaky-Friday level shit he's dealing with. Cats and dogs are raining from the sky, lizard men wear skin suits to disguise themselves as humans, and Michael fucking Mell might not score a perfect six on the Kinsey scale,  _ what the fuck _ ?

“Nah,” Michael says, working his way through the empty bag as he slowly shreds it into neat little strips, like confetti for this weird, sort of coming out party. “Just uh, one particular girl.”

“How 'bout that Audrey?!” Jeremy shouts on reflex, and immediately clamps his hand over his mouth because Christine's a terrible influence and this is a serious conversation  _ dammit. _

“You fucking nerd. You and Christine deserve each other,” Michael snorts, and some of the weird tension is gone. “It's not going to happen though.”

Jeremy raises an eyebrow, because the idea of anybody  _ not  _ liking Michael is pretty damn impossible. Michael just shifts, awkward all of a sudden. “I mean, she's dating someone, and like, I'd never be a homewrecker or anything, but like, it's something to think about.”

“Well uh, that’s good,” Jeremy smiles, and raises his Capri-sun in a mock toast, because god, he didn't think junior year could get much more surreal. “To twice the fish in the sea?”

Michael giggles, and the way his eyes crinkle up at the edges makes heat dust Jeremy's face. “Yeah, something like that.”

* * *

Jeremy invites Christine for dinner— okay, it’s less of a dinner and more of an evening snack grab, but they’re broke teenagers, so it’s pretty much the same thing— over the phone, heart skipping a beat when she doesn’t even hesitate to agree.

The next day, they step out of the little pastry shop, the local one that’s owned by some distant cousin, with a box filled with two slices of some kind of cake under his arm. The street lights are soft, casting the sidewalk in light yellows.

Christine walk on the curb, arms thrown out for balance. “So, we’re going to the lake?”

“What—” Jeremy sputters, indignance only half fake. “It’s a surprise! We could… not be going to the lake?”

“Jer, I live around here. There’s nothing in this side of town but that park and what’s apparently a really good pastry shop.”

He shrugs, hands over the cake and then grabbing at the metal of the chainlink fence. Michael got him to go explore some abandoned buildings when they were younger, most of which was spent documenting some… creatively worded graffiti and worrying about the police showing up and throwing them in jail for the rest of their lives. Still, hopping fences is like riding a bike— you can never really forget how, so Jeremy climbs up and swings his legs over, and jumps, before helping Christine and the box of cake over. Her face is flushed, and clouds fan up around her face from the cold.

She takes his hand, and they walk down the path carefully. The moon is full today, but the sun still sets far too early for anyone’s liking. The lake isn’t too far, but Jeremy still manages to trip on every tree branch and root the whole way there. There’s a little bench by the water, and Jeremy sits, offering her a paper plate with a small slice of cake. 

She takes it after a moment, and Jeremy nabs a plastic fork and slides it through the layers of whipped cream and poppy seed filling, and shoves it in his mouth. The noise he makes is awful, eyes fluttering shut, because damn, he’d forgotten how good sahnekuchen was, holy shit.

Christine is staring at him, pink faced. “So… uh, good cake?”

Jeremy nods eagerly, and yeah he probably should feel less proud of the cooking skills of a cousin he only sees at Hanukkah and Passover. He cuts off another chunk of cake and offers it, skeered on a fork like a over sweetened shish kabob.

She doesn’t take the fork, just leans and bites the cake off of it, and Jeremy gives a silent prayer of thanks that he didn't poke her face with the tines. Christine smiles at him, and now it’s his turn to go red.

“So, do you like, cook?” She asks.

Jeremy takes a moment and nods, because while it’s been a while, he does enjoy making things other than ramen and other quick dinners when Dad’s too tired or depressed or busy. “Yeah, uh, these weird almond cookies, chicken soup and whatever recipe Mrs. Mell’s given me. You?”

“Well… I’ve never poisoned anyone,” She says. “That you know.”

Jeremy stares at her, and she stares at him, deathly serious, because what if they’re both involved in a manslaughter, but then Christine’s laughing, giggles bursting out as she slaps her knee. “Kidding! Yeah, I can feed people edible stuff!”

He raises an eyebrow.

“C’mon, Jenna gave me this recipe for snickerdoodles in sixth grade, and they use candied ginger and I’m really good at it! I brought them to Arsenic and Old Lace last year!” Her face falls. “Everyone said they were really good, at least before they had to get their stomachs pumped.”

“I don’t know whether I feel better or worse knowing that I’m not the first to ruin a school play.”

Christine laughs into her piece of cake. “I mean, the robot uprising was new, but at least it didn’t end in someone going to Juvie? God, the production of _ Julius Caesar  _ was such a shit show.”

Jeremy frowns. “Didn’t someone mess up the props?”

She glances around and leans in conspiratorially. “Jenna found out the guy ‘accidently’ swapped all 23 knives for actual like, metal, and told  _ everyone _ .”

“Seriously?”

Christine nods, licking a smidge of cream off her lips. “At least you didn’t try to get anyone to stab anyone else, I think? I was kind of out of for most of it?”

Jeremy feels damned by faint praise. “So uh… Jenna?”

She shrugs, smiling. “Our moms like, work together and share weird office gossip, so we’ve known eachother for ages.”

“Neat,” Jeremy says, poking at what’s left on his paper plate. “We uh… we’re cool now, I think.”

“She told me at lunch the other day.” She squeezes him tight. “Thank you.”

“Eh, who am I ruin a dynamic duo?” 

Again, that is.

“Hah! I was missing her cats— they want their Auntie Christine!” Christine giggles into his shoulder. “It’ll be weird without the gossip, though.”

He ruffles her hair affectionately. “Yeah, now how will you get up to the minute advice on who’s gay?”

“I know, right?” Christine nods eagerly. “How am I going to recruit for Pride now? All the freshmen are super nervous this year!”

“Well, if it helps, Michael said he was uh, Rich would call it bicurious?” Jeremy says, shrugging in sort of what-the-fuck way, joking. “It was weirder than when he came out to me the first time.”

Christine doesn’t laugh though, just scrunches up her nose. “Like, bi as in, likes woman like he likes his dudes. Like,  _ you  _ bi?”

“Yup.” Jeremy pops the P, a habit he picked up from the very topic of their conversation. “He said he was uh, thinking some stuff over.”

“Oh.” Christine’s looking out at the empty, icy beach with a strange look on her face. She’s always been easy to read, wearing her heart on her sleeve, but Jeremy’s still having trouble untangling the look of terror and happiness in her eyes. She takes a bite of her cake, and then another, and Jeremy watches as she takes a deep breath, straightens her spine and looks everywhere but him.

“So,” Christine starts, twisting her ring around her index finger. “Do you know like, polygamy?”

Jeremy's been dragged to a few pride parades, including a particularly exciting and or mortifying experience where Michael managed to tie a Bi pride flag to him and push him onto one of the floats. His cheeks are still probably red from that.

So yeah, he's not as innocent about these things as everyone seems to think.

“Yes?” He's not sure if he's reading the air right, but he's got a creeping feeling he knows where this is going. “A-are you breaking up with me?”

“What? No!” Christine squeaks. “I mean, not unless you want to?”

“No, I really don't,” Jeremy says, the hand clamped around his heart loosening a little. Christine puts a hand on his thigh, and he can feel the warmth through his jeans.

“I'm saying we should, y'know—” She puts her index and middle fingers into little Vs and thrusts them together, then attempts to do the same with her ring and pinkie fingers simultaneously, like that makes it all crystal clear— “With Michael. Or not at all! We can forget this conversation even happened, if you want!”

Jeremy just sort of... stares out at the lake as the warm feeling engulfs him, because  _ whoa _ .

Admittedly, the idea has flitted through his head before, leaving him hot and uncomfortable for a number of reasons, the least of which being Christine. He loves her, he really does, and the thought of losing her scares the shit out of him. He wouldn't give this up for anything, even if it means letting go of the way Michael’s smile or the solid slope of his shoulders makes his heart jolt like he’s been shocked.

“You'd want to... do that?” he chokes out.

Christine nods at her feet. “Yeah. If you do.”

He's been jealous of Michael before, for the effortless way he fits into his own skin, his bright smile, the way he can do anything, fuck what people think, but when he thinks of Christine and Michael, together, there's none of that coldness.

God, he’s weak for them.

“Yeah, I do.” The words feel more like a confession of guilt than love, and Jeremy backpedals. “But I would never cheat on you!”

“Jeremy,” She smiles, “I know. I just think we'd be good for each other. Together. I mean, like we already are together as like friends, but also in the romantic sense.”

He nods, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders with the admission. It’s like he was drowning and didn’t know it, but now he can breath and his lungs are filled with air and warmth. “I… I would love that.”

Christine grins into her hand and wipes at her face. “Sorry, I just…”

He squeezes her hand tight, and presses a kiss to her cheek. It’s salty.

“He’s just…” Christine says as he pulls away, and makes a sound like a asthmatic goblin.

Jeremy understands the exact emotion, and replies with a garbled screech. She returns the sentiment with something between a seal’s bark and a cartoon explosion.

“Yeah, Michael’s amazing,” He says, because he knows if the two of them start making weird sounds at each other, it’ll last three hours and only end with the police showing up for a noise violation. Amazing is honestly cutting the list of badass things about Michael unfairly short, but its hard to articulate everything cool about him, from the way his head bops along to the music in its own little dance, to the patches and pins on his jacket, each one with a story, to the curve of his thighs, which Jeremy has spent a frustrating amount of time thinking about.

"He… makes me feel like the center of attention.” She leans her head on his shoulder, and he can smell her shampoo. “I mean, you do too, but it’s… different. Nice.”

“Yeah, he does that,” He laughs a little bit under his breath. “Trust me, I've noticed.”

Jeremy sit there on the bench, and wonders if he’s just in shock, because god, he can’t be this lucky. Maybe when he goes home the reality of whatever they’re trying to do will sink in and hit him like a ton of bricks. Then he’ll go and cry himself to sleep for a week, as usual.

But honestly, he doesn’t think that’s what’s going to happen. The strange warmth is wrapping itself around him like a blanket, along with an overwhelming feeling relief. He’s had to choose between them before, and that nearly lead to the destruction of the human race, and a lot of the old Jeremy.

After a long time, Christine stand, and helps him up, holding his hand. It's not like she and him and Michael don't share everything anyways and Jeremy's so fucked up, a normal relationship is probably beyond him, but that doesn't scare him when he thinks about Michael.

The whole idea feels right, like they’re two weights on the teeter totter of Jeremy's life, and everything’s slipped back to equilibrium.

* * *

Seducing Michael, as Christine calls it, or courting Michael as Jeremy insists, red faced, gets off to an interesting start.

Jeremy rides the bus home with her for the first time on Thursday, and the way she sticks her hands in the pockets of his cardigan is more than enough to distract from how he’d seen Chloe talking to her clique, fingers twisting in the air like claws.

Christine’s home isn’t a house, but a little apartment complex a few blocks from the town park. The siding is painted a sort of dull, weatherbeaten white, and it matches the grey doors and shingles in perfect, choreographed dullness. It’s honestly baffling how such a drab building could house somebody so alive and vibrant. The whole place looks more like a Jeremy Heere affair.

She leads him up the cement staircase to the second floor, pointing out the black ice patches, and draws him over to the fourth door to the left. There’s a pair of large, bipedal metal frog figurines that come up to his waist, each of them holding a big bouquet of stained-glass flowers. Four smaller frogs in a rainbow of sundresses stand at their feet, little wire arms wrapped around a single flower each.

Jeremy feels nerves and gooseflesh prick at his arms as Christine knocks, wait a moment, and sighs. “Damn it.”

She stands back, patting down her coat pockets for a key, and glances up at him. Immediately the frustration in her face fades. “Hey, you okay?”

Jeremy shrugs. “Eh, just nervous. It’s uh, the first time I’ve met your family, so…”

Christine smiles and grabs his shirt with practiced ease, pulling him down and catching his lips with her. His hand comes up to cup the back of her head on reflex, and he shivers as she bites his lip gently.

She pulls away slowly, eyes dark and half lidded in a way that Jeremy thinks may mean a second round, and he can’t even be bothered to be ashamed they’re making out on her front stoop. “They’re going to love you, Jer.”

Her voice is sweet and soft, and Jeremy’s already leaning in again, and then very suddenly  _ not _ as the door slams open.

“CHRISSIE!”

Three identical, tiny children rush out the door and run at them, stopping Jeremy’s attempts to leave room for Moses by latching themselves to his and her legs. Mortification burns red hot across his cheeks, and Christine looks almost as red as he feels as two of the adorable gremlins tug at her skirt and stand on her feet.

“Ruby, get off!” Christine yelps, grabbing at the back of one tiny, front tooth missing kid and hoisting her under her arm, before flailing her leg, still ensnared by another child. Jeremy wonders if he should help, but he still has one clinging to his pant leg.

“Ruby, what have I told you about climbing people?”

Jeremy breaks his staring contest with the toddler drooling on his jeans to look at woman who’s appeared in the doorway. She’s a little shorter than Christine, cheekbones a little higher, but wow, that is definitely her mom.

“H-hello ma'am?”

“You must be Jeremy,” Mrs. Canigula says, smiling and shaking his sweaty, gross hand. “Christine has said  _ so _ much about you.”

“Yeah, uh J-Jeremy Heere,” He says, and fuck, does she know that’s just his name or does she think he’s just being weird? He tries to focus on the other, more important thing she just said. “Wait, Christine talks about me?”

Mrs. Canigula grins like Jeremy’s just handed her a million dollar ticket to Parental Embarrassment Land, America’s premium humiliation destination. “Jeremy, dear, I’ve heard more about your cardigans and smile than  _ play re—” _

“Okay mom, thanks, love you, gotta go work on our history assignment!” Christine squawks, tugging him down a hallway lined with baby pictures and photos of Christine dressed as a tree, then photos of her as a chorus member, and lastly, a few of the high school posters with her in the center. Jeremy flushes as he hears a distant call of “Use protection, sweetie!” as Christine slams the door shut.

“So, uh, you weren’t kidding about triplets,” Jeremy says for lack of anything better as she tucks her hair back behind her ears, red faced. “What’s that like?” 

“Eh, they can be a handful. Mom and dad are busy a lot, so…” Christine shrugs, clicking the door shut and twisting the lock, jiggling it just to make sure. “I’m very good at babysitting at least— it makes dealing with Rich so much easier.”

Jeremy laughs in spite of himself, because that’s true in kind of a mean way. Christine seems to find the hollow, reedy wheeze charming, and sits on her bed, patting the spot next to her. Jeremy sits, and contemplates the Phantom of the Opera bedspread and the cozy faux fur of the throw pillows instead of the fact that he’s doing the impossible and actually sitting on a girl’s bed, and not just a girl,  _ the  _ girl.

Christine takes a deep breath. “So. Seducing Michael.”

“Courting.”

She huffs, blowing a strand of dark hair out of her face. “Fine, courting, and subsequent seducing of Michael Mell.”

Jeremy nods, deathly serious. “We need a plan. Do you have any notebooks?”

Christine shrugs and fishes one out from an old pink bookcase with a half torn off Cinderella decal on it. “Yeah, what for?”

Jeremy takes it and clicks his pen pensively. “Flowcharts.”

“Jer, why do we need a flowchart?”

He stares at her, because he can’t figure out the words to describe the planning perfection that is the noble and glorious flowchart. “Why wouldn’t we need a flow chart? We need to be prepared!”

Christine scoffs. “It’s flirting— improve— you can’t be prepared! I mean, you didn’t use flowcharts to ask me out.”

Jeremy stares at her, chewing his lip.

“Seriously?”

“I, uh, memorized them?” He says, shoulders hunched. “Making them is relaxing, okay!”

She sighs fondly and passes him a pen. “Well, then, teach me your ways.”

Two hours, one hasty, triplet filled snack break and 50 pages later, Jeremy is finally satisfied with their plan. Between Christine’s ability to socialize like a normal human being, Jeremy’s paranoia and their combined knowledge of their target, they manage to cover most of the important stuff, covering rejection, three kinds of public humiliation, and at Christine’s suggestion, the looming threat of Rich and Jake locking the three of them in a janitorial closet with a pack of condoms to work out their problems. 

They’ve got it set out in a three step plan.

Step 1: Jeremy  ~~ seduces ~~ courts Michael.

There’s a little bit of a snag in this, because the one and only time Jeremy managed to actually date someone for real (or for fake) it nearly ended in the destruction of the human race. Still, it’s Michael, and Jeremy may not know how to flirt without tripping over his own tongue or the meaning of chocolate or flowers or whatever, but he does know him, so he tries to make it work.

Monday he has all but two classes which Michael, and it’s too immediate for him to start having regrets, so that seems like the best time to roll out the plan.

Jeremy doesn’t lie in bed thinking about masturbation or push ups due to aforementioned masturbation when he wakes up early, the red digits of his alarm clock glowing at him through the semi darkness. He rolls out of bed, pulls on his nicest pair of jeans, the black ones with the untorn knees, and puts on enough deodorant to kill a man. He still wears one of the old sweaters, the teal one that’s still a little sweet smelling from the perfume he’s afraid to wash off, but he trades the usual dorky tee-shirt for a button down and spends a good half hour fussing with the cosmetics the SQUIP forced him to buy. There’s something nice about using them for something the SQUIP hates, humming “Skid Row” as the computer screams and insults him, powerless.

Michael’s hanging out by his locker— which really should just be renamed their locker since Jeremy puts half his binders there on any given day— tongue sticking out between his lips as he hammers away at buttons of his Gameboy Advanced. Jeremy walks over, and Michael looks up, and Jeremy swears his eyes take a second longer to look him over than usual.

“Hey dude, nice outfit,” Michael says, tucking his Gameboy into the kangaroo-esque pouch of his hoodie. “You trying to impress Christine or something?”

Jeremy shrugs, face warm from the complement. That’d be an unexpected benefit, but he’s got to keep his eyes on the prize. “Mmm, just felt like dressing up, I guess.”

“Yeah, well you look nice,” Michael says, brushing a speck of lint off of Jeremy’s shoulder. “Blue’s a good color on you.”

Jeremy hides his blush by opening the door to his locker and hiding behind it. He grabs the chain of sticky notes from the inside of the locker and dumps them in the trash. It’s hard, but he ignores the impulse to look and find out everything the school says makes him so terrible. The fact that he already knows what the words will be— Freak, cheater, asshole, the grades change but the insults don’t— helps. The repetition sort of sucks out the hurt.

Besides, they’re on the inside of the locker, so its not like anyone else sees them. That’s good— less risk of other people finding out and joining the dog pile.

“You okay?” Michael asks, his locker clean today. 

Jeremy nods, because he’s not letting anything get between them this time. He’s got a plan and he’s going to stick to it, hell or high water.

He eyes Michael’s arm like a warzone. It’s not like he doesn’t grab his shoulder or hand or link elbows with him all the time, but now that there’s an actually goal of like, kissing him, it feels way bigger. C’mon, it’s just two feet aw—

“You okay dude?”

“Yes!” Jeremy yelps, and latches onto Michael’s arm.

Some may say that two periods of Chemistry at seven thirty in the morning is cruel, demoralizing or some other third thing, but Jeremy’s always kind of enjoyed doing the labs, and only partly because Michael’s his partner. It’s nice doing something where a cautious, methodical approach isn’t obnoxious, or a symptom of anxiety or something, but is actually rewarded with simple, accurate data. Better yet, it’s a good way to start off this whole scheme-thing. 

He goes through the trials quickly, triple checking the gas hoses before turns on the valves, measuring out the solutions as precisely as he can, but honestly, he’s doing a much more important experiment at the same time. Underneath the flowchart in his head is the procedure instructions, in neat, metaphorical bullet points— let your touch linger, don’t look away when he catches you staring, little things like that.

It’s a little nerve racking, to be honest, more than lighting the bunsen burners and mistaking everything for the hiss of gas. He thinks Michael notices, but he isn’t sure if that makes him more or less nervous. For the first time he remembers that this whole mess isn’t just risking his relationship with Christine, it could mess up the twelve year friendship he’s only just got back.

He almost calls the whole thing off for a moment, but then Michael’s flicking his safety glasses, and chuckling about how he’s zoning out, and Jeremy relaxes. 

“Yo dude, watch the crucible,” Michael laughs, cranking open the air valve on the bottom of the burner, making the flame go from a loose, almost liquid orange to a sharp and bright blue.

“Okay, okay, but if we burn down the lab, I blame you.”

Michael snorts and squeezes more saline into the dish, the liquid hissing and popping against the hot ceramic. The salt on the bottom of the dish glows a bright orange, and the light paints the side of Michael’s face like a sunset. It’s kind of beautiful.

Michael licks his lips, and for a second all the flow charts and graphs defenestrate out the metaphorical window, and Jeremy feels himself leaning in and—

The bell rings, and suddenly both of them are shuffling their books and binder back into their bags. 

Brooke is staring at them across the room, something like disgust on her face. Shit.

“Hey uh, Michael? I’ll catch up.”

Michael frowns, and Jeremy reaches over and squeezes his friend’s hand. He nods, and Jeremy takes a deep breath.

Okay, according to the flowchart that Jeremy’s got memorized,  now it’s time to implement Step 1, Emergency Section B.

He hates Step 1, Emergency Section B.

“H-hey Brooke!”

Brooke looks up from her backpack as she zips it shut. “What.”

Jeremy is vaguely aware of the people moving past them, but all he can focus on is the bitter twist of her lips, the resigned anger under her eyeshadow. He steals himself— he has to do this. “Can we talk? Please?”

The classroom’s empty now, the teacher off for some errand, and Jeremy feels his courage dwindle. “So, uh, how are you?”

“Fine,” She states. “How are you and Christine?”

There’s something acidic under her words, clipped as they are, but Jeremy still answers, because he’s got no idea how to redirect this, and no idea if he wants to. “Good, we’re good.”

Brooke just stares at him, and her eyes cut straight to the bone. She doesn’t say it, but they both know what she’s thinking. Jeremy swallows, trying to clear his throat, but it still feels like his neck is in a vice. “I’m not cheating on her with Michael!”

She gives him a disbelieving look, and Jeremy doubts she’ll listen if he decides to argue the semantics, because he knows how this looks.

“Once a cheater, always a cheater,” She sighs, turning towards the door. “Chloe always told me that.”

Christine would know what to say, be bold and clear and precise as she pulled apart the issues like a chain of freshly cut paper dolls, explaining and comforting until everything was easy. Michael would probably never get into this, but if he did, his smile, the way his eyes go soft when he’s scared, that would be enough to tell Brooke anything. But Jeremy’s not either of them, and any clever words or gestures are lost to him, so what he says is: “I didn’t want to cheat on you Brooke. I swear.”

She gives him a withering look. “Funny how you managed to anyways.”

Jeremy winces, because Brooke’s voice isn’t burning with hate or vitriol or anything, it’s just cold and flat, and he’s never been good at dealing with that sort of anger, from Christine or Mom or the SQUIP. 

“Brooke… Chloe, she…” He can’t get the words out, because god, doesn’t want to hurt Brooke like he hurt Michael, leave her and Chloe looking at eachother like suspicious strangers, dancing around each other for weeks, because Brooke doesn’t deserve that sort of purgatory.

“Chloe  _ what,  _ Jeremy?”

He takes a deep breath and lets it go, skin crawling. He has to do this, he has to, because Brooke deserves to know that this wasn’t her fault. “I told her to stop, Brooke.”

Brooke blinks, face a little pale. “What?”

“Chloe kissed me, and I told her to stop,” Jeremy says, praying that she gets the message—  _ It wasn’t your fault. You were enough. _

“I told her no, Brooke. I swear I told her no.” Jeremy doesn’t know if it’s desperation for her to believe him, or desperation to believe himself that tinges his voice with panic. “Please.”

She gives him a long appraising look, pulls her backpack over her shoulder and leaves. Jeremy doesn’t follow her, just crumples into a seat, heart pounding in his ears.

(When the teacher comes back, and sees him there, on the threshold of hyperventilating next to the bunsen burners, she doesn’t ask any questions, just hands him a pass.)

* * *

Step 2: Christine  ~~ Courts ~~ Seduces Michael.

That step goes a little easier. Maybe it’s Christine’s phenomenal acting talent, or maybe it’s just sheer impulsiveness, but she absolutely nails him.

It.

Fuck.

To be fair it’s less a step two and more of a slightly delayed simultaneous subsection of step one, but Jeremy read somewhere that threes are lucky and it looked better on the flowchart, so sue him.

Jeremy can only watch in mild awe as she walks up to Michael halfway through lunch, wraps an arm around his waist (He’s too tall for her to reach his shoulders) and says, “Are you a long rehearsal? Because you keep me up at night.”

Michael goes red, and for a long second Jeremy thinks they’re going to have to abort the whole plan and regroup, but then Michael laughs and pushes Christine gently, and things are back on track.

That pretty much opens the floodgates, because suddenly she’s dropping pick up lines left and right. 

In lunch, she whispers “You’re like an ice cream, Michael— cool, sweet and good for spooning,” and Jeremy chokes on his bagel until Rich gives him the Heimlich. 

“Right now my teeth aren’t the only part of me that’s wooden,” gets passed in history class via note, and Michael laughs so hard he has to excuse himself. Jeremy feels a little bad about that one, but not enough to stop enabling her.

It kind of reminds him of a documentary he saw with Michael, watching some exotic, Amazonian bird perform a complex and ridiculous mating dance. Bright plumage, gifts of food, non-figurative, actual dancing: all part of the wild Christine’s courtship display. He should probably be like, jealous about his girlfriend cuddling up to some other guy, but it’s actually kind of cute, watching them go through math problems together, kicking each other under the table. Jeremy just smiles and catalogues all the behaviors as the Bird of Paradise attempts to woo the Northern Cardinal. He’s sure David Attenborough would be proud.

In that case, Chloe must some rival Ornithologist with a smartphone instead of binoculars, with the way she stares. Maybe a logger. He can kind of imagine her summoning some sort of sludgy, toxic waste Tim Curry to possess construction vehicles, and god, this metaphor has just slid into a Fern Gully allegory, goddammit.

He tries to ignore the way she glares at them from across the halls, solitary and deadly like a shark, whispering to whoever’s next to her with a scowl and an eyeroll, the occasional manicured finger jabbed in their direction. The school feels alive with eyes watching him, flicking away whenever he gets close, and Jeremy knows that Michael’s been using the wet wipes in his bag to clean insults off his locker, but he doesn’t mention it, just hands him a little bottle of windex. They don’t talk about it when people in the halls practically hip-check him, or when his lunchbox mysteriously gets thrown all the way across the room either. He doesn’t know if Christine notices.

He hopes not.

He’s sitting with them out behind the school after their auditions for the musical, leaning against the old oak. It isn’t Brooke’s spot behind the school— the thought of taking them to someone else’s secret hideaway feels blasphemous, and he’s not going to push his luck after that conversation. Still, this one isn’t as nice, but it’s pretty good. The school’s pot dealer doesn’t come out here, at least, and even if there’s always a few beer bottles behind the fence, but the grass is soft, and there’s plenty of space for three people under the tree’s wide boughs.

Jeremy’s pretty sure he’s pulling ahead in the imaginary flirting contest, because he may not have Christine’s confidence, but he does have a thermos of hot apple cider, which is almost as good. Would be better if they had cups, but Michael doesn’t seem to mind as he takes a long drag from the bottle. 

“Shit dude, did you put cloves in this?”

Jeremy nods, feeling a rare moment of pride, because yes he did. Michael is always a slut for cloves.

“Man, I am always a slut for cloves,” Michael says, passing the bottle to Christine on his right. “You’ve gotta send me the recipe.”

Jeremy smiles. “It’s the first result on google— uh, the orange website.”

Michael nods, his head knocking against the trees.

“Hey Tallass!”

Jeremy looks up, and all five feet and five inches of Richard Goranski is standing over them, one finger jabbed at them. “Hello?”

“Sup.” Rich’s eyes flick down to where Christine has snaked an arm around Michael’s shoulders. “Yeah, I’m just gonna borrow your boyfriend.”

Rich hauls him up and marches Jeremy across the football field to the bleachers. Jake’s sitting underneath one on an old milk crate, scraping his crutches across the ground in front of him. He looks up when Rich drags another box over and says, “Jeremy, sit.”

Jeremy complies, legs bunched up like a really dumb looking frog. “Hi Jake.”

Jake nods, but he’s got a weirdly grave expression, like he’s just taken Old Yeller behind a shed. “Hello Jeremy.”

“So,” Rich starts, not even crouching. It will never stop being weird, seeing him eye-to-eye. After a long, terse moment, he sighs and places a consoling hand on Jeremy’s arm. “Jeremy, I think your girlfriend's cheating on you with Michael.”

“I uh… what?”

Jake looks at him, a perfect, somber doppleganger of Droopy Dog. “She wants Headphone’s dick.”

“Audio jack, you mean,” Rich interjects, grinning, then he looks at Jeremy’s baffled expression and frowns. “I’m really sorry dude.”

“Rich, she— we just— She’s not cheating on me!” It comes out more indignant than he means.

“We saw her tell Michael that she’d get Oscar Wilde with him,” Rich deadpans. “While wiggling her eyebrows. In the middle of the cafeteria.”

“Goddammit,” Jeremy says, staring at the floor, because Christine is a monster. “Fuck.”

Jake sighs and pats his back, but it’s more of a slap, really. “I’m sorry your girl is fucking your best bro. Or well, trying, dude’s less straight than a silly straw.”

“Uh,” Jeremy says, lips moving on instinct to fill the silence. 

“So, uh, do you want us to break her legs?” Rich asks, leaning back against one of the bleacher’s support struts. “I’ve been told I’m good at that.”

“No! Do not break my girlfriend’s legs!” Jeremy sputters over the scandalized look Jake’s shooting Rich. 

“One leg? I mean, Christine’s nice, but she is cheating on you. With your best friend.”

“Absolutely not!” Jeremy shouts, hands flailing. “And she is not cheating on me!”

Jake and Rich give him a long, concerned look.

Jeremy just sighs. 

“I— we’re trying to uh… court him?” He says lamely. “I mean, I’m flirting with him too? How have you not noticed  _ that _ ?”

“Noticed what?” Jake says, looking at him like a labrador whose owner has pretended to throw a tennis ball, but actually just has it shoved in his pocket.

“The fancy clothes, the snacks, I—” Jeremy waves his hands, red faced, because somehow explaining this is more embarrassing than actually doing any of it. “I’ve spent the last week like,  _ cuddling _ him!”

“Uh, yeah we did,” Rich says and glances at Jake, who gives him a confused, betrayed look. “Okay, I did. We thought that was just like, bro shit.”

“I let him put his head on my  _ lap _ , while we talked about  _ moving in together _ for college! How could you think that was bro shit?!”

Rich sighs. “Yeah well, your bro shit is really gay, okay?”

Jeremy sighs, running a hand down his face, because  _ god _ . “The point is, no one is cheating! On anybody!”

“Oh,” Jake says. “But I heard from—”

“Well Jeremy, time to go back to your weird threesome!” Rich shouts, slapping his back and pulling him up. “Go get em Tiger!”

Jeremy sighs as belligerently as he can as Jake wolf whistles. He’s never had a walk of shame before, but the walk back to the tree feels pretty damn close to one. Christine and Michael look up 

“What happened?” Michael asks, oblivious.

Jeremy just slides down the tree in a head, hands covering his scarlet face. “Bro shit.”

* * *

It’s easier to breathe now, because somehow having Rich and Jake in his corner has lifted a weight off his chest. He’s not sure when they became close enough that just telling them about his life made it easier, but here they are.

Still, it’s not enough to drown out the buzz of voices, in his head and in his school.

He can hear them talking about them, her, in the background all day, gossiping about the pink flowers she tucked into Michael’s locker. God, he hopes she doesn’t know. He hopes  _ so damn much  _ that she isn’t going to have her social life pulled out from under her feet because of him.

The morning is a little warmer than usual on that Thursday, the frost finally starting to give up to spring, but everything else is the same. Jeremy rolls out of bed early, the pink light of dawn splashing sunbeams across his bed spread, pulls on a high turtleneck and today’s sweater- baggy white cardigan with thick wool and little silver threads woven in, that Mom wore whenever it snowed— and gets out the door, ready for the day.

The bus is quieter than usual, the early hour and sunrise placating the students, and Jeremy clicks his pen and finishes up his Chemistry homework, the ink jerking across the page in jagged lines whenever they hit a pothole. 

Michael’s not at the door today, which is unusual, but not unprecedented. He isn’t in cafeteria eating breakfast either, which is weird, but Jeremy just shrugs and pads across school to their lockers, where he spent a year grinning at Christine on the other side of the hall.

The good news is, Christine and Michael are both there, which is comforting in its familiarity until they turn and Jeremy sees the tears on her cheeks and Michael’s nauseous expression. He walks towards them slowly, like either of them will spook at sudden movements. In an instant, she has her arms around his waist and then Jeremy sees  _ it. _

Jeremy stops short  when he sees it, breath catching in his throat, and Christine buries her head into his shoulder. Numbly he puts his arms around her shaking shoulders, because  _ Jesus Christ _ .

“SLUT” is scrawled across her locker in big, angry spray paint, the S and T bleeding onto the doors next to Christine’s. The door’s been dented, twisting the grate like green-painted taffy, and there’s a horrid smell coming from in it. 

Distantly, he can hear the tittering of the other early risers, their hurried footsteps, and the abrupt pause whenever they stop to stare. He can see Eyeliner out of the corner of his eye, staring intently at her nails behind Chloe, who is silent and alone, a thin, vindictive smile on her lips.

“Jer.”

He loosens his grip on her, pulling back just enough to see her face, red eyed and puffy. She meets his eyes, and Jeremy tilts his head at Chloe in a silent question. 

For a moment, Christine stops, biting her chapped lips and staring past his shoulder at her sadly, but then that sadness drains away, and bright iron, like something welded in a forge, springs up and she wipes her tears and nods sharply. 

Jeremy lets out a shuddering breath, the cold clammy feeling in his chest catching fire, and pulls away, letting his hands trace down her arms as they untangle, because maybe those few extra seconds of touch will be enough to remind him why he’s doing this.

He can see Michael take her hand as he turns away and walks towards Chloe. Good, he knows they’ll keep each other safe.

Jeremy wills himself to stand a little taller, tip his head back and pull his hands out of his pockets, and it’s a little scary how easy it is to shift into that old stance. “We need to talk.”

Chloe just scowls and keeps looking at her phone.

“I said,” Jeremy hisses, and the coldness in his own voice sends a shiver down his spine, because he hasn’t done this, let his voice drop to that harsh, low cadence, since the SQUIP trained him into it. The word loser hangs heavy on his tongue. “We need to talk.  _ Alone _ .”

Eyeliner rolls her eyes from behind Chloe, but Chloe ignores her and looks up from her phone, which is bullshit, because Jeremy  _ knows  _ she’s been watching Christine sob. Chloe didn’t even put in the effort to even close the lock screen. “Fine.”

Jeremy follows the click of her heels down the hall. He hates it, because now any power he had has drained away. Chloe is back in control, leading him to his doom yet again. He must be an idiot, because he still follows. 

Chloe steps inside an empty classroom, the chairs still piled on the desk and looks at him expectantly.

Jeremy stares at her, heart in his throat, because never really thought that he’d make it this far. He feels like the dog who’s caught the car.

“Well? Quit wasting my time, Jerry,” She drawls. Jeremy feels bile rise, because he doesn’t know if she’s pretending or not, but the very idea that she did… that to him and never even bothered to learn his name hurts.

“L-leave Christine alone.” His stutter is back, figures the one thing the SQUIP taught him that might have done some good left as soon as he tried saying something honest. “Leave  _ us  _ alone.” 

“I can’t, because in case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t done anything.” She says, looking at him like he’s an idiot.

Jeremy feels frustration spreading through him like a bad ache. “W-well then, what do you call  _ that _ !”

“I didn’t put that on her locker!”

Jeremy rolls his eyes, a cold, sick feeling building in his chest like pneumonia. “Yeah, but you told everyone you could about how  _ terrible _ everything about Christine was, and how  _ god,  _ wouldn’t it be wonderful if someone taught that  _ l-loser  _ a lesson?”

“Don’t think she doesn’t deserve it.” Chloe scowls. “That bitch took everyone from me.”

Jeremy blinks at her and she groans, teeth flashing like knives. “Five second with you dipshits, and everyone’s ditched me. Assholes.”

“I mean, Jenna, yeah, that was a given, but Brooke? God, I can’t believe she crawled back to  _ you  _ again,” Chloe says, circling him like a hawk. Her voice is acidic. “I can’t believe she picked Christine of all people over  _ me _ .”

Jeremy swallows, and tells her what she wants to know. “That’s because she— we— told them.”

“Told them what?” Chloe is looking at her nails idly, and Jeremy’s skin crawls.

“That—” Jeremy sucks in a lungful of air because the truth is trying to choke him. He works his throat, and the words come up choked and strained. “That you tried to  _ rape me  _ because you were  _ jealous _ .”

Jeremy had always imagined telling her differently, imagined roaring the words at her in a crowd like molten lead, but that isn’t what it’s like at all. There’s no tearful waver to them or vitriolic rage, just a hard, jagged statement, a little too fast and tripping over the words like hurdles.

Chloe still jerks back like she’s been shot though, hand white-knuckled on the edge of the desk. She mouths something, but no words come out.

“You dragged me up the stairs, threw me onto the bed and fucking straddled me! And then when I told you no, you pushed me against the headboard, started grinding on me, and shoved a flask in my face, and unzipped my shirt and—” Jeremy shouts, every stupid fucking rehearsal of toning it down and numbing it giving way to the red hot anger of what’s probably going to be his final highschool performance, because fuck it, Christine always loved dramatics, and Jeremy’s social life might as well go out with a bang. 

“I just— Argh! You’re an  _ asshole,  _ Chloe, and I hope that that fucking five minutes of revenge or whatever was worth my fucking—” He pauses for a fraction of a second, because how is he supposed to compress the sleepless nights, tugging on layers and layers of clothes like body armor, the choked feeling he gets whenever he thinks about her words, the sadness in Brooke’s eyes, Michael’s furious glare that has never fit his features, and the hurt way Christine looked at him outside? “— Everything.”

Chloe doesn’t move when he turns on his heel and leaves, which is good, because he has no idea what to say now. The door slams behind him, and the noise crashes behind him like a wave.

The hallway’s empty by now, even the most ardent gossips off to class, and Jeremy wonders if that includes Christine and Michael. Probably not.

He stands there for a moment, like an idiot, half expecting Chloe to spring from the classroom and gut him, but then realization dawns and he knows exactly where to go.

The mulch of the courtyard has broken apart to give way to the crocus buds scattered around the stone bench, and Jeremy takes a seat on it between Christine and Michael. He grabs for their hands and squeezes them tight.

“I told her.”

Michael exchanges a glance with Christine over his shoulder, all worried, furrowed brow and that frown that looks so wrong on him, and she looks back with wide, watery eyes, and somehow that’s what breaks him.

The tears on his cheeks burn from salt and cold, but they’re gone in an instant as Michael drags him into vice like hug and his face presses against the wool jacket. A second later, Christine's got her arms around him and Michael too, pressed tight against his back, holding them together.

It’s good.

It’s so, so fucking good.

He doesn’t really want to ever leave this, but after what feels like seconds but was probably longer, Christine’s arms must get tired and she lets go, one arm still tucked around his waist, hand warm on his thigh. Jeremy sighs and untangles himself from Michael, who keeps their arms linked like a chain.

Michael takes Jeremy’s face in his hand and brushes the tears away with the swipe of his thumb. The half proud, half sad look in his eyes reminds Jeremy of the way he’d patched up his knees whenever Jeremy fell off the jungle gym and into the wood chips when they were kids, and that incandescent thought pushes out all the gloom for just a second, and then he’s leaning in and—

It’s quick, barely a brush of the lips before Jeremy realizes what he’s done and pulls back. Michael stares at him, pawing at his lips in shock, and then at Christine, likes he's ready to face some rad, gigantic beatings.

“I'm down with this sickness.” She gives him a thumbs up. “Save some for me.”

“Holy shit,  _ yes _ ,” Michael says, wide eyed, licking his lips, and grabs the collar of his shirt and tugs him in and—

Oh.

Christine’s always been passionate when it comes to pretty much everything, but Michael’s giving her a run for her money as he kisses Jeremy senseless.

Jeremy feels the world spin around him as Michael lets go, but it's the good kind of dizziness, like he just got off of a literal, non emotional, rollercoaster.

“Yes! Finally!” Christine shouts, sticking out her palm. Jeremy slaps it, because A.  _ fuck yeah, finally _ , and B., who leaves their girlfriend hanging?

Michael just grins at the two of them goofily, eyes flicking down to Christine’s lips. She smiles and her fingers tangle in his hair as Michael pulls her in, sweet and slow.

Jeremy feels his heart flutter as he checks off the last of the flowchart.

~~ Step 3:— Confess ~~

* * *

It’s Saturday, and Jeremy is enjoying the weekend in the only way he knows how: stress baking.

To be fair, this is the good kind of stress baking, because instead of fretting over some test or something weird and ephemeral and probably SQUIP related, then ending up making too many cookies or donuts or something, he’s actually got a reason.

After all, he’s got a date tonight. 

Actually, make that two.

Jeremy grins as he kneads the almond dough— the recipe a present from his cousin— and just basks in the euphoric feeling dancing in his chest, because god, he’s too damn lucky.

It’s been like this all morning. He forgets for a little bit, wanders around the house for a while, then remembers and just sort die of happiness. He’s chipper enough that his dad has pulled him aside to tell him “I’m happy for you two, private, but make sure you’re being safe” multiple times, to Jeremy’s sputtering indignation, because no we didn’t, and also  _ you're my dad _ .

Still, it’s nice, thinking about the free museum they’ve picked out, some exhibit with theater and retro movie costumes, and how Michael’s face is going to light up at the special effects props. He smiles as he shapes the dough into little crescents.

The doorbell rings, and Jeremy sighs, slapping the dough back down onto the cutting board and cleaning his hands before heading over to the front door. He unfastens the latch, opens the door, and his heart stops.

Chloe Valentine is standing on his doorstep. Her hair is limp, and her clothes are plain, and she isn’t looking at him, just the spot a few inches above his head. 

“Jeremy.”

“Chloe.”

Part of him wants to open the door all the way and invite her in, but then he blinks and remembers who this is, and he slips out to stand in front of it, one hand on the knob like an escape rope. He takes a deep breath and lets it go. “Why are you here.”

Chloe bites her lip. “I… wanted to apologize.”

“Okay.” Jeremy swallows the lump in his throat, and shoves his hands in his pockets, trying to hide the way she makes his hands tremble. “Christine gets out of dance at three, so you could pro—”

“Jeremy.” She reaches for his arm, and he flinches in spite of himself. “I’m going to, but I wanted to tell you first.”

Jeremy doesn’t really want her to tell him anything, because he’s said his piece, and honestly he just wants to forget this even happened, but something holds his tongue— anything else would be hypocrisy. If Christine and Michael and everyone else could forgive him, he can at least hear her out.

“I didn’t know what happened. I was pissed about, well, you, and I drank too much, and everything was really hazy after they brought out the shots and…” She sighs. “I just thought that you— god, I can’t believe I thought… Jesus Christ.”

Jeremy isn’t sure if he doesn’t know how to comfort her, or if he just doesn’t want to. Either way, he nods. 

“Look, I'm sorry for what drunk me—” She must see the bitter look on his face, because she backpedals, “I mean, I did. It was shitty, and I was jealous, and that’s an awful excuse. No matter how much booze I had, I should have gotten off of you.”

Jeremy bites his lip and nods, and she just keeps going, faster now, like a freight train picking up speed. “I just... have hurt a lot of people, and I think I'm just starting to notice that. I want to make things right, but—”

“It's hard,” Jeremy says, staring at the welcome mat, because it’s easier. “Feeling like you've already lost your chance to repair things, and having to keep going, and fight for it. That and, uh, hope people are willing to listen.”

Chloe nods, staring at her feet, and Jeremy reaches out a hand, because while he doesn't know if that bitter, scared feeling in his heart could ever be satisfied by any penance, he isn't about to let someone flounder in their guilt like he did. Does.

When she takes it, their palms slotting together, he barely flinches.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this trash! Feel free to leave comments, because honestly, they make me so damn happy!


End file.
